the parking lot below
whatsoever. And no sun.
The last vestiges of sunset disappeared behind the
row of carports facing her. In the dusky twilight, all the cars looked gray.
Beautiful time to pay Little Miss Perfect a visit.
No Lori, no witness. No witness, no testimony. No testimony, no problem.
Amber shoved the sticky note back into her purse
next to the Glock and headed for her Camry.
Cypress Circle turned out to be just that—a circle.
A cul-de-sac of classic Florida homes. Smaller houses than she’d anticipated,
sure. But each swam in a large lot, surrounded by reams of well-manicured lawn.
Amber checked the number again.
There. Third one on the right.
She drove past and parked on the side of the road, a
half-block from the entrance to the circle. No sense broadcasting Miss Model’s
last night to live.
Flicking her cigarette onto the sidewalk, Amber
closed the driver door carefully and made her way to Lori’s little house,
tugging on some dollar-store gloves and tucking her hair under a ball cap.
No need to spread forensic evidence around like
candy.
A Disney-themed welcome mat graced the front
doorstep. Wasn’t that cute? Amber gave it a good kick, pleased to see it fly
into the bushes.
She decided to circle the perimeter before knocking
on the door to put a bullet in Barbie’s brain.
Darling little flowers surrounded the house. Barf. Amber
made sure to step on them, enjoying the feel of her stilettos impaling the
blossoms and the stems crunching underfoot.
Most of the windows were dark, but one flickered
with life. Looked like TV. So much for a model’s exciting life.
And what’s this? Amber halted, standing still in
surprise.
A sliding glass door separated Lori’s interior from
the exterior. And the door was open wide enough for an elephant to saunter
through. Guess fancy schmancy supermodels didn’t have to worry about the cost
of air conditioning like the rest of the mortals.
The icy blast hardened her nipples from three feet
back. Christ. It’s as if Lori wanted to die tonight.
Amber smiled. She’d be glad to grant that wish.
As she stood, a pale, scraggly cat slunk out the
opening and curled around her leg. God, she hated cats. Amber bent, lifted it
by the scruff of its ugly neck, and hurled it over her shoulder backward. The
satisfying mewl as the critter hit the ground barked loud into the stillness.
How annoying. Amber wiped her hands on her skirt.
Fur was so obnoxious.
Before crossing the threshold into Lori’s pristine
kitchen, she leaned against the outer wall and slipped off her shoes. No sense
alerting the prey to the lion’s presence, after all. And that’s what she felt
like.
A hungry lion. A ferocious tiger. A hunter on a
mission to kill. Amber Tompkins, huntress.
Amber slung the purse strap over her neck crosswise,
and wrapped her eager fingers around the cold metal of the Glock. She drew it
out and aimed it straight in front of her chest as she prowled barefoot down
the hall.
Soundtrack laughter shattered the stillness.
Sitcoms. Amber smirked. As soon as she had a clear shot, she planned to fire.
Laugh it up. Enjoy it. She who laughs last… dies.
The form swathed in homey-looking afghans giggled at
the screen. Amber unloaded six bullets in rapid-fire succession. The body
twitched. Amber grinned. Mission accomplished.
Before any hoity-toity neighbors got the urge to go
all ‘neighborhood watch’ and call the cops, Amber slipped back out the door and
into her shoes.
By the time she got the Camry started, a fit of
laughter overtook her.
Nothing could stop her now.
* * *
Lori slammed down the lid of her trunk, surprised it
could latch with all those shopping bags stuffed inside.
She really should have let Kimber come, too. Now
that she’d had a few hours to stew over their conversation, she’d come to a few
conclusions.
First, Kimber had a big mouth and little tact.
Lori unlocked the driver door and slid into the
seat.
whatsoever. And no sun.
The last vestiges of sunset disappeared behind the
row of carports facing her. In the dusky twilight, all the cars looked gray.
Beautiful time to pay Little Miss Perfect a visit.
No Lori, no witness. No witness, no testimony. No testimony, no problem.
Amber shoved the sticky note back into her purse
next to the Glock and headed for her Camry.
Cypress Circle turned out to be just that—a circle.
A cul-de-sac of classic Florida homes. Smaller houses than she’d anticipated,
sure. But each swam in a large lot, surrounded by reams of well-manicured lawn.
Amber checked the number again.
There. Third one on the right.
She drove past and parked on the side of the road, a
half-block from the entrance to the circle. No sense broadcasting Miss Model’s
last night to live.
Flicking her cigarette onto the sidewalk, Amber
closed the driver door carefully and made her way to Lori’s little house,
tugging on some dollar-store gloves and tucking her hair under a ball cap.
No need to spread forensic evidence around like
candy.
A Disney-themed welcome mat graced the front
doorstep. Wasn’t that cute? Amber gave it a good kick, pleased to see it fly
into the bushes.
She decided to circle the perimeter before knocking
on the door to put a bullet in Barbie’s brain.
Darling little flowers surrounded the house. Barf. Amber
made sure to step on them, enjoying the feel of her stilettos impaling the
blossoms and the stems crunching underfoot.
Most of the windows were dark, but one flickered
with life. Looked like TV. So much for a model’s exciting life.
And what’s this? Amber halted, standing still in
surprise.
A sliding glass door separated Lori’s interior from
the exterior. And the door was open wide enough for an elephant to saunter
through. Guess fancy schmancy supermodels didn’t have to worry about the cost
of air conditioning like the rest of the mortals.
The icy blast hardened her nipples from three feet
back. Christ. It’s as if Lori wanted to die tonight.
Amber smiled. She’d be glad to grant that wish.
As she stood, a pale, scraggly cat slunk out the
opening and curled around her leg. God, she hated cats. Amber bent, lifted it
by the scruff of its ugly neck, and hurled it over her shoulder backward. The
satisfying mewl as the critter hit the ground barked loud into the stillness.
How annoying. Amber wiped her hands on her skirt.
Fur was so obnoxious.
Before crossing the threshold into Lori’s pristine
kitchen, she leaned against the outer wall and slipped off her shoes. No sense
alerting the prey to the lion’s presence, after all. And that’s what she felt
like.
A hungry lion. A ferocious tiger. A hunter on a
mission to kill. Amber Tompkins, huntress.
Amber slung the purse strap over her neck crosswise,
and wrapped her eager fingers around the cold metal of the Glock. She drew it
out and aimed it straight in front of her chest as she prowled barefoot down
the hall.
Soundtrack laughter shattered the stillness.
Sitcoms. Amber smirked. As soon as she had a clear shot, she planned to fire.
Laugh it up. Enjoy it. She who laughs last… dies.
The form swathed in homey-looking afghans giggled at
the screen. Amber unloaded six bullets in rapid-fire succession. The body
twitched. Amber grinned. Mission accomplished.
Before any hoity-toity neighbors got the urge to go
all ‘neighborhood watch’ and call the cops, Amber slipped back out the door and
into her shoes.
By the time she got the Camry started, a fit of
laughter overtook her.
Nothing could stop her now.
* * *
Lori slammed down the lid of her trunk, surprised it
could latch with all those shopping bags stuffed inside.
She really should have let Kimber come, too. Now
that she’d had a few hours to stew over their conversation, she’d come to a few
conclusions.
First, Kimber had a big mouth and little tact.
Lori unlocked the driver door and slid into the
seat.
Similar Books
