The Heart of a Killer. Jaci Burton

Чтение книги онлайн.

      Six

      Sleep had been an illusion, a fantasy. Anna had come home after getting off duty, stripped off her clothes and climbed into a hot shower to scrub the remnants of the day from her body, her mind filled with the possibilities of this case.

       By the time she’d crawled into bed, the thick shades pulled down to block out the morning sunlight, she was exhausted. But sleep had been in fits, and dreams had been filled of that night twelve years ago, of being pinned down and helpless, the burn and screaming pain of a sharp knife carving into her chest. And suddenly it wasn’t her anymore, but George, a shadowy figure standing over him as he cried out for help, the tip of a knife glinting silver and menacing in the moonlight.

       She woke with a gasp, her hand immediately going to her chest to rub the ache that never seemed to go away. Dragging her hand through her hair, she got up, dressed and made coffee.

       Cup full of life-infusing brew, she stepped out onto the back patio.

       It was brutally hot outside already, the humidity rising like the steam coming off her coffee. She took a seat on a cushioned chair, glad she had a shaded patio to cool her bare feet. If it was this hot in June, what was August going to be like?

       Unbearable. And this kind of heat bred crime.

       But she wasn’t on duty right now and she’d barely brushed the cobwebs out of her mind. It wasn’t time to think of work yet.

       She sipped her coffee and watched the birds peck at the feeder in the corner of the yard. She’d impulsively bought it this spring, thinking her backyard needed some life and color—much like her life—but hey, she had to start somewhere, and the yard was easier. She’d added flowers and bushes, and had spent a couple weekends digging into the dirt with her shovel, sweating her ass off and loving every minute of it.

       She didn’t need a social life if she had a backyard project, did she? Try telling that to her father.

       Now she had to remember to water everything and put seeds in the bird feeder, but at least she had something out here to look at besides a couple trees and some grass.

       She sipped her coffee and smiled at the birds fighting over the seeds.

       The only thing missing from her life now was a rocking chair and a cat.

       She laughed, thinking her dad would not be amused by that thought. He was already bitching about her getting close to thirty and not giving him grandchildren.

       As if that was a priority.

       As if any man would want to deal with all the baggage she’d bring to a relationship, the scars from the past, both physical and emotional. She could hardly stand getting naked in front of a man. Nudity required explanation of her scar, and since she’d never told the truth about that night, she had to lie about how she’d gotten it. Sex was much better in the dark, wearing some clothes. Not that she had a problem with sex. She liked it just fine, but the whole relationship and marriage thing? No thanks.

       As if she was even interested in getting married and having children, anyway.

       Her work hours were shit, she had frequent nightmares, the past still had a stranglehold on her and she liked her independence. She dated rarely, slept with men even more infrequently and took her sexual frustration out on her job.

       Yeah, she was one hell of a catch.

       Her cup empty, she went inside to refill and saw her phone vibrating across the kitchen counter.

       It was a text message from Dante asking her to call him when she woke up.

       She pressed the call button and he answered on the first ring.

       “I didn’t expect you to answer me right away,” he said. “Figured you’d still be asleep.”

       “I don’t need a lot of sleep.”

       “So you’ve said. You ready to meet with all of us tonight?”

       No. She didn’t want to meet with any of the guys, but figured Dante would keep insisting. And if he didn’t, Roman would. Roman worried like an old woman. “I guess so. How about pizza at my place at six?”

       “Okay. I’ll round everyone up. I’ll bring the beer.”

       “Won’t this be fun.” The best kind, too—they’d be talking about a murder, and she’d have to once again relive that night.

       She clicked the phone off and leaned against the counter, ignoring the throb of the scar on her chest.

       There had to be an explanation for George being killed in the alley, for the uncanny resemblance of his murder to the death of Tony Maclin. And for the carving of the heart on the victim’s chest.

       But there was also the matter of the flowers and the card. No explaining that away as coincidence. Someone had wanted her to know about the murder. The flowers had been a gift. A sick gift, and there was no way to neatly tie this up as a coincidence, no matter how much she wanted to.

       She had time, so she headed to the medical examiner’s office. Richard Norton hadn’t autopsied the body СКАЧАТЬ