The Next Killing. Rebecca Drake

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СКАЧАТЬ I think you’ll find it comfortable.” She jiggled the key in the lock, saying, “it sticks sometimes,” before the door suddenly swung open.

      “I think these apartments are pretty charming.” The older woman stood back so Lauren could pass in front of her. The postage-stamp entry gave way to a larger living room.

      “You’ve got a fireplace,” Sister Rose said, but Lauren had already seen it. “It’s gas—they were converted years ago—but it works and all you have to do is flip a switch. It’s around here somewhere.” She strode across to the white wooden mantel.

      “That’s okay,” Lauren said quickly. “I don’t like fire.” Flames shot up, crackling around realistic-looking logs.

      Sister Rose shut off the switch. “You might change your mind when it gets colder,” she said.

      As soon as she’d gone, Lauren rearranged the beige love seat and two dark brown armchairs in the small living room so they blocked the hearth. They were comfortable, if a little worn, as was the cheery oriental rug on the floor. All of it was better than anything she’d had. Bookshelves flanked the fireplace and the other blank wall. There were plenty of books on the shelves and a wooden desk in one corner.

      Lauren got out of bed and padded into the tiny kitchen that was adjacent to the living room. Small fridge, small stove, and sink. Soap underneath and a fresh sponge. The refrigerator was empty save for a box of baking soda and the carton of milk she’d picked up at a convenience store. The cupboards were lined with white shelf paper and her single box of Cheerios. There wasn’t a crumb in sight. Sister Agnes had left the place immaculate.

      The photograph album was on the table where she’d left it after unpacking. It had taken her only an hour to settle in. Lauren wondered what that said about her that her entire life could be unpacked in an hour. At the bottom of a box of books she’d found the small photograph album she’d put together one rainy day in London.

      Sitting down at the table, she’d turned the pages, looking at the photos of her and Michael on a hillside in Dover and at a café in Paris.

      It was an indulgence, looking at Michael, at his smile, at his eyes. She knew there would be a time when she looked at these pictures and simply thought of him as her first lover, not her only. There would be a time, but that time was not now.

      She put the album aside and sat down with a bowl of cereal, listening to the silence. Back in the apartment even at this early hour there were the noises of neighbors’ televisions and children. All she could hear now was the soft sound of rain slapping against the windows.

      Between the kitchen and the bedroom, off a narrow hall, was a small bathroom with a shower. Lauren splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth, grateful that she didn’t have to share the students’ communal baths.

      Stripping off her pajamas, she dressed quickly in a T-shirt and exercise pants, pulling a sweatshirt over her head and lacing up a pair of running shoes.

      She was used to running early in the morning—she’d done it for years, kept it up when she was overseas, and didn’t stop when she returned to the States, running the streets of Hoboken every morning. She’d done it for so many years that sometimes she forgot why she’d started, the need to escape that had driven her when she was younger. It was still good for that, still a way to shut off the stress. She had to face a classroom in a few hours, but first she would run.

      Locking her apartment door behind her, Lauren slid the key into her shoe and tiptoed down the hall to the front door. She slipped outside, closing it quietly behind her, and paused on the steps to do a few stretches.

      It was so incredibly still. She could hear the far-off cooing of doves, but otherwise the only noise was from the faint patter of a soft rainfall. It was nothing more than a drizzle and she didn’t let it stop her from starting off at a good pace.

      Up the path, away from the dormitory toward the main building, then cut across the asphalt road in front of the school and into the woods across the street. She’d discovered yesterday that the acres and acres of woods had crushed limestone paths running through them, a nature lover’s sanctuary and a perfect place to walk or run.

      Morning fog had settled around the trees and there was a chill in the air. She was glad she’d worn the sweatshirt. Such strange weather for August, but she wasn’t complaining. Anything beat the summer heat.

      Her feet crunched along the limestone and she breathed in the heavy loamy smell of wet earth and the underlying odor of wet wood and decaying leaves. Soon the paths would be blanketed by the leaves that were only starting to turn. She wondered what it would be like to run up here in the winter.

      When she came to a “Y” she hesitated for a moment before bearing right, only to be startled into a full stop when something large and ghostly rose from the fog ahead of her.

      It was only a statue, she realized, laughing at her fear and moving forward to run a hand lightly over the cold marble. She recognized the tableau. Jesus is Condemned to Death. She peered through the fog and saw another statue a few feet ahead. The Stations of the Cross cut in intricate detail on expensive stone. They’d probably been here since the beginning days of the school, if the dark green moss edging the marble’s surface was anything to judge by.

      She ran slowly past the remaining eleven statues, looking at the story of Christ’s passion worked in stone. And then it was only trees again and the wind whipping lightly across her face. She ran hard, blanking her mind to everything but the movement of her feet. When a large pond came into view on her right she slowed and pulled off the path, feeling the grass cold against her ankles as she headed for the water’s edge. There was a small stone bench and she took a seat, breathing hard.

      The water of the pond, murky and algae laden where it merged into grass, was a still oval of silver. Leaning against the bench, feeling the cold stone press into her back, she looked out over the water and went through the mental checklist of everything she needed to finish prepping for class that morning.

      Something caught her eye. A glimmer of color between the trees. She stood up and squinted, trying to see it more clearly. A coppery red color. Something bright, but it couldn’t be a bird, could it?

      She stood up and circled slowly around the approximately quarter-mile loop, running at a slower pace in an attempt to keep sight of it, but the trees blocked her view. Once she was on the far side she slowed to a walk, looking around in vain for that color and then back across the pond to find the bench where she’d been sitting so she’d have a reference point.

      This was where it should be, but she saw nothing but green as she walked toward the trees until suddenly there it was again. Just a splash of color. She moved past the trunk of a maple and saw it clearly this time, that bright coppery red that should have seemed familiar.

      It was hair, hanging damp and heavy. But Lauren didn’t notice that as much as she did the naked body it was attached to.

      Stephanie was making love with Alex when the phone rang. They were in bed, half-asleep, a slow, sweet, good morning suddenly and rudely interrupted. The noise echoed through the small town house, a chorus of phones jangling in tandem. He ignored it, trying to hold her attention, but she couldn’t. Cursing, he slipped out of her as she plucked the phone off the nightstand.

      “Detective Land.”

      “It’s not even six,” Alex complained, grunting as he climbed out of bed and stalked to the bathroom still semi-erect.

      “Got СКАЧАТЬ