the keys carelessly into her pocket. “Why don’t you sit in the living room and turn on the stereo or something while I get the tea?”
She shed her coat as she walked, tossing it negligently at a chair. Ed picked it up as it slid to the floor and folded it. It smelled like her, he thought. Then, telling himself he was foolish, he laid it over the back of the chair. He crossed to a window to study the trim work. It was a habit he’d gotten into since he’d bought his house. Running a finger along it, he tried to imagine it at his own window.
He heard Grace call her sister’s name, like a question, then call it again and again and again.
He found her kneeling beside her sister’s body, pulling at it, shouting at it. When he gathered her up, she tore at him like a tiger.
“Let me go. Goddamn it, let me go. It’s Kathy.”
“Go in the other room, Grace.”
“No. It’s Kathy. Oh God, let me go. She needs me.”
“Do it.” With his hands firm at her shoulders, he shielded her from the body with his own and gave her two hard shakes. “Go in the other room now. I’ll take care of her.”
“But I need—”
“I want you to listen to me.” He kept his gaze hard into her eyes, recognizing shock. But he couldn’t cosset or soothe or tuck a nice warm blanket around her. “Go in the other room. Call 911. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” She nodded and stumbled back. “Yes, of course. 911.” He watched her run out, then turned back to the body.
Number 911 wasn’t going to help Kathleen Breezewood. Ed crouched down beside her and became a cop.
Chapter 4
I T WAS LIKE A scene out of one of her books. After the murder came the police. Some of them would be weary, some tight-lipped, some cynical. It depended on the mood of the story. Sometimes it depended on the personality of the victim. It depended, always, on her imagination.
The action could take place in an alley or in a drawing room. Atmosphere was always an intricate part of any scene. In the book she was writing, she’d plotted out a murder in the Secretary of State’s library. She’d enjoyed the prospect of bringing in Secret Service, politics, and espionage as well as police.
That would be a matter of poison and drinking out of the wrong glass. Murder was always more interesting when it was a bit confusing. She was delighted with her plot line so far because she hadn’t quite made up her mind who the murderer was. It had always fascinated her to figure it out and surprise herself.
The bad guy always tripped up in the end.
Grace sat on the sofa, silent and staring. For some reason, she couldn’t get beyond that thought. The self-defense mechanism of the mind had turned hysteria into numbing shock so that even her shudders seemed to be pulsing through someone else’s body. A good murder had more punch if the victim left someone behind to be stunned or devastated. It was almost a foolproof device to draw the reader in if done right. She’d always had a talent for painting emotions: grief, fury, heartache. Once she understood her characters, she could feel them too. For hours and days at a time, she could work, feeding off the emotions, reveling in them, delighting in both the light and the dark sides of human nature. Then she could switch them off as carelessly as she switched off her machine, and go on with her own life.
It was only a story, after all, and justice would win out in the final chapter.
She recognized the professions of the men who came and went through her sister’s house—the coroner, the forensic team, the police photographer.
Once, she’d used a police photographer as the protagonist in a novel, painting the stark and gritty details of death with a kind of relish. She knew the procedure, had depicted it again and again without a blink or a shudder. The sights and smells of murder weren’t strangers, not to her imagination. Even now, she almost believed if she squeezed her eyes tight they would all fade and reassemble
She shed her coat as she walked, tossing it negligently at a chair. Ed picked it up as it slid to the floor and folded it. It smelled like her, he thought. Then, telling himself he was foolish, he laid it over the back of the chair. He crossed to a window to study the trim work. It was a habit he’d gotten into since he’d bought his house. Running a finger along it, he tried to imagine it at his own window.
He heard Grace call her sister’s name, like a question, then call it again and again and again.
He found her kneeling beside her sister’s body, pulling at it, shouting at it. When he gathered her up, she tore at him like a tiger.
“Let me go. Goddamn it, let me go. It’s Kathy.”
“Go in the other room, Grace.”
“No. It’s Kathy. Oh God, let me go. She needs me.”
“Do it.” With his hands firm at her shoulders, he shielded her from the body with his own and gave her two hard shakes. “Go in the other room now. I’ll take care of her.”
“But I need—”
“I want you to listen to me.” He kept his gaze hard into her eyes, recognizing shock. But he couldn’t cosset or soothe or tuck a nice warm blanket around her. “Go in the other room. Call 911. Can you do that?”
“Yes.” She nodded and stumbled back. “Yes, of course. 911.” He watched her run out, then turned back to the body.
Number 911 wasn’t going to help Kathleen Breezewood. Ed crouched down beside her and became a cop.
Chapter 4
I T WAS LIKE A scene out of one of her books. After the murder came the police. Some of them would be weary, some tight-lipped, some cynical. It depended on the mood of the story. Sometimes it depended on the personality of the victim. It depended, always, on her imagination.
The action could take place in an alley or in a drawing room. Atmosphere was always an intricate part of any scene. In the book she was writing, she’d plotted out a murder in the Secretary of State’s library. She’d enjoyed the prospect of bringing in Secret Service, politics, and espionage as well as police.
That would be a matter of poison and drinking out of the wrong glass. Murder was always more interesting when it was a bit confusing. She was delighted with her plot line so far because she hadn’t quite made up her mind who the murderer was. It had always fascinated her to figure it out and surprise herself.
The bad guy always tripped up in the end.
Grace sat on the sofa, silent and staring. For some reason, she couldn’t get beyond that thought. The self-defense mechanism of the mind had turned hysteria into numbing shock so that even her shudders seemed to be pulsing through someone else’s body. A good murder had more punch if the victim left someone behind to be stunned or devastated. It was almost a foolproof device to draw the reader in if done right. She’d always had a talent for painting emotions: grief, fury, heartache. Once she understood her characters, she could feel them too. For hours and days at a time, she could work, feeding off the emotions, reveling in them, delighting in both the light and the dark sides of human nature. Then she could switch them off as carelessly as she switched off her machine, and go on with her own life.
It was only a story, after all, and justice would win out in the final chapter.
She recognized the professions of the men who came and went through her sister’s house—the coroner, the forensic team, the police photographer.
Once, she’d used a police photographer as the protagonist in a novel, painting the stark and gritty details of death with a kind of relish. She knew the procedure, had depicted it again and again without a blink or a shudder. The sights and smells of murder weren’t strangers, not to her imagination. Even now, she almost believed if she squeezed her eyes tight they would all fade and reassemble
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