Judas Kiss. J.T. Ellison

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СКАЧАТЬ Not just yet.

      She pulled into the Wolffs’ maple-lined driveway and cut the engine on her Volvo. Corinne’s black BMW 535i sat in front of the garage door. The wrought iron lantern lights that flanked the front doors were on. Michelle frowned. It wasn’t like Corinne to forget to turn those lights off. She remembered the argument Corinne and Todd, her husband, had gotten into about them. Todd wanted the kind that came on at dark and went off in the morning automatically. Corinne insisted they could turn the switch themselves with no problem. They’d gone back and forth, Todd arguing for the security, Corinne insisting that the look of the dusk-to-dawns were cheesy and wouldn’t fit their home. She’d won, in the end. She always did.

      Corinne always turned off the lights first thing in the morning. Like clockwork.

      The hair rose on the back of Michelle’s neck. This wasn’t right.

      She stepped out of the Volvo, didn’t shut the door all the way behind her. The path to her sister’s front door was a brick loggia pattern, the nooks and crannies filled with sand to anchor the Chilhowies. Ridiculously expensive designer brick from a tiny centuries-old sandpit in Virginia, if Michelle remembered correctly. She followed the path and came to the front porch. The door was unlocked, but that was typical. Michelle told Corinne time and again to keep that door locked at night. But Corinne always felt safe, didn’t see the need. Michelle eased the door open.

      Oh, my God.

      Michelle ran back to her car and retrieved her cell phone. As she dialed 911, she rushed back to the porch and burst through the front door.

      The phone was ringing in her ear now, ringing, ringing. She registered the footprints, did a quick lap around the bottom floor and seeing no one, took the steps two at a time. She was breathing hard when she hit the top, took a left and went down the hall.

      A voice rang in her ear, and she tried to comprehend the simple language as she took in the scene before her.

      “911, what is your emergency?”

      She couldn’t answer. Oh God, Corinne. On the floor, face down. Blood, everywhere.

      “911, what is your emergency?”

      The tears came freely. The words left her mouth before she realized they’d been spoken aloud.

      “I think my sister is dead. Oh, my God.”

      “Can you repeat that, ma’am?”

      Could she? Could she actually bring her larynx to life without throwing up on her dead sister’s body? She touched her fingers to Corinne’s neck. Remarkable how chilled the dead flesh felt. Oh, God, the poor baby. She ran out of the room, frenzied. Hayden, where was Hayden? Michelle turned in a tight circle, seeing more footprints. No sign of the little girl. She was yelling again, heard the words fly from her mouth as if they came from another’s tongue.

      “There’s blood, oh, my God, there’s blood everywhere. And there are footprints…Hayden?” Michelle was screaming, frantic. She tore back into the bedroom. Something in her mind snapped, she couldn’t seem to get it together.

      The 911 operator was yelling in her ear, but she didn’t respond, couldn’t respond. “Ma’am? Ma’am? Who is dead?”

      Where was that precious little girl? A strawberry-blond head appeared from around the edge of the king-sized sleigh bed. It took a moment to register—Hayden, with red hair? She was a towhead, so blond it was almost white, no, that wasn’t right.

      “Hayden, oh, dear sweet Jesus, you’re covered in blood. Come here. How did you get out of your crib?” She gathered the little girl in her arms. Hayden was frozen, immobile, unable or unwilling to move for the longest moment, then she wrapped her arms around her aunt’s shoulders with an empty embrace of inevitability. Pieces of the toddler’s hair, stiff and hard with blood, poked into her neck. Michelle felt a piece of her core shift.

      “Ma’am? Ma’am, what is your location?”

      The operator’s voice forced her to look away from Corinne’s broken form. She raised herself, holding tight to Hayden. Get her out of here. She can’t see this anymore.

      “Yes, I’m here. It’s 4589 Jocelyn Hollow Court. My sister…” They were on the stairs now, moving down, and Michelle could see the whispers of blood trailing up and down the carpet.

      The operator was still trying to sort through the details. “Hayden is your sister?”

      “Hayden is her daughter. Oh, God.”

      As Michelle reached the bottom of the stairs, the child shifted on her shoulder, reaching a hand behind her, looking up toward the second floor.

      “Mama hurt,” she said in a voice that made her sound like a broken-down forty-year-old, not a coy, eighteen-month-old sprite. Mama hurt. She doesn’t anymore, darlin’.

      They were out the front door and on the porch now, Michelle drawing in huge gulps of air, Hayden crying silently into her shoulder, a hand still pointing back toward the house.

      “Who is dead, ma’am?” the operator asked, more kindly now.

      “My sister, Corinne Wolff. Oh, Corinne. She’s…she’s cold.”

      Michelle couldn’t hold it in anymore. She heard the operator say they were sending the police. She walked down those damnable bricks and set Hayden in the front seat of the Volvo.

      Then she turned and lost her battle with the nausea, vomiting out her very soul at the base of the delicate budding dogwood.

      Two

      A morning off.

      Instead of lounging in bed, luxuriating in the crisp sheets and getting irritated with the Tennessean, Metro Nashville homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson was squinting at the ceiling in her living room, a small flutter of panic moving through her chest.

      “Baldwin?” she called, stepping closer to the fireplace. “Baldwin!”

      “What?” A voice floated down the stairs, tinged with impatience.

      “You need to see this. I think the ceiling is wet.”

      The clatter of footsteps on the stairs assured Taylor that her fiancé was making the trek from their bedroom on the second floor down to her, in the room directly below, posthaste. He appeared at her side, joined her in craning his head toward the living room ceiling. A dark gray stain was moving across the joint, treading a thin line of damp. As they stared, a small drop of water beaded up from the end of the discoloration. Neither of them moved as it grew, larger and larger, then broke off and fell with a muffled plop onto Baldwin’s shoulder.

      They sprang into action, no words needed. Baldwin sprinted back upstairs toward the bathroom to turn off the water. Taylor went to the kitchen and came back with a spaghetti pot. She stood under the dribble, catching droplets of water as they rushed through the surface of the drywall and fell to earth.

      God, what next?

      Baldwin came back to the living room with a step-ladder. “This house is built on an Indian burial ground, Taylor. I swear it. I turned the water off. We can set the pot on this. It might help keep the carpet СКАЧАТЬ