Operation Xoxo. Elle James

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СКАЧАТЬ her cell phone and hit the speed-dial button that would connect her with her sister living in Minneapolis.

      After four rings, Elise’s teeth were chattering and she almost threw the phone out the window. “Where is she?”

      “Al—Elise?” Brenna was still trying to get used to the different name, but her voice sounded so calm over the line.

      “Brenna.” Elise Johnson’s fingers trembled as she held the phone to her ear with one hand and snatched up the letter in the other.

      “What’s wrong?” Her younger sister had a way of reading her voice, even from over a thousand miles away.

      “Brenna. I’m scared.”

      “Are the boys okay?” Brenna’s voice, clear and crisp, snapped over the line.

      “The boys are f-fine.” Elise sucked in a deep breath and fought back the sob rising in her throat. Fear clenched a hand around her gut and squeezed. “I got a letter today.”

      “From whom?”

      As the procession of cars crawled by one by one with their headlights on like so many zombies, Elise whispered, “I don’t know.”

      “What did it say?”

      For several seconds, Elise stared down at the boxy print, her hand shaking so hard, she couldn’t read the words. But then, she didn’t have to. She could recite them word for word without seeing the paper.

      “Elise!” At Brenna’s shout, Elise pulled herself together.

      She took a deep breath. “The letter said, ‘Dear Alice, For better or for worse, until death do us part. Let death begin.’”

      “What the hell does that mean?” A street cop turned detective, Brenna didn’t tone down her words. “And who the hell knows you’re Alice?”

      “I don’t know. But I’m so scared I can’t think.” A car honked behind her. Elise jumped and glanced around, realizing the funeral procession had passed and traffic had resumed, except where she held up a dozen cars. “I’m in traffic and I have to go. I’ll call you when I get home.” She wished her sister was in Texas where she could go straight to her.

      “Do that. And, Elise, don’t worry. We’ll figure this out.”

      God, she hoped so. This all had to be a big mistake—a really big mistake. The letter was much like the ones Brenna had received in North Dakota when she’d been on the trail of a serial killer.

      That serial killer had turned out to be none other than Elise’s husband. He’d very nearly killed Brenna. Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat. What woman ever suspected her husband of being a serial killer? Especially a deacon in the church, a man most of the community looked up to and trusted.

      They’d told her Stan had died in the fire he’d set in his attempt to kill Brenna. Elise still had nightmares about that time. She’d almost lost her only sister.

      Elise had always wondered if Stan really died in that fire.

      Memories flowed in like the floodwaters of the Red River that had swept away the burning house with Stan inside two years ago. No body had been recovered, but then he’d been burned and carried away, so what had they expected to find?

      Her husband the serial killer was dead.

      Elise shifted the car into gear and pulled forward, suddenly overwhelmed with the need to hug her children. She wished she had someone big and strong to hug her.

      How could anyone know where she was? How could he have found out her secret? Was it really Stan?

      Damn it. Stan Klaus had to be dead.

      Elise couldn’t live through all that again.

      Then again…maybe that was the plan.

      PAUL FLETCHER STEPPED OUT into the bright afternoon sun. The heat radiating off the pavement warmed his air-conditioner-chilled arms. The contrast between the conference room inside and the South Texas heat had to be at least thirty degrees. He might never acclimate if he didn’t get out of the office more often.

      He marveled at the number of trucks in the parking lot. Hardly anyone in the urban areas of the East Coast owned pickups. Paul had succumbed to the lure of the four-wheel-drive vehicle within a week of arriving and bought a pewter-gray 4x4 truck, glad he’d passed on shiny black like the SUV parked in the space next to his. It looked good, but in the Texas sunshine, black absorbed more heat, making it blistering hot in the long summers.

      Before he stepped off the curb onto the sticky black asphalt, Melissa Bradley’s bright red truck pulled up next to him. Her automatic window slid down. “Get in.”

      “Why? I was on my way to the house for a cold beer.”

      “Change of plans.”

      Paul climbed into the passenger seat, the dream of relaxing by the apartment-complex pool with a beer fading as Melissa pulled onto Interstate 10, headed toward El Paso. “Where are we going?”

      “Breuer.” Dressed in jeans and Dingo boots, Melissa had made the transition from the East Coast like she’d been born and raised in Texas. She’d even picked up a little of the local dialect.

      “Why Breuer?”

      “Remember Alice Klaus?” She glanced at him before returning her attention to the San Antonio afternoon traffic. Slowing, she allowed cars from the access ramp to ease onto the busy interstate, headed to the suburbs after a day at work.

      “Alice from the Dakota Strangler case in North Dakota?” An image of a pretty lady with pale blond hair and two cute little boys swam into his head. “The wife of the serial killer Alice?”

      “That’s the one.”

      “What does she have to do with Breuer?”

      “Her sister, Brenna, called a few minutes ago. Apparently, Alice Klaus, now Elise Johnson, settled in Breuer and hired on as a high school history teacher.”

      A smile lifted the corners of Paul’s lips. He remembered her, all right. Pretty blonde, killer husband. “She changed her name.” He nodded. “A good thing.”

      “Yeah. Only someone’s found her.”

      Paul tensed and sucked in his breath. “Found her or killed her?” He’d barely known the woman more than a few days, but he remembered feeling regret. If the circumstances had been different, she was someone he wouldn’t mind getting to know better.

      Melissa shot a glance at Paul. “Found. She’s alive.”

      Paul let the air out of his lungs and leaned back in his seat for the twenty-minute drive to the hill country outside San Antonio.

      WHEN THEY PULLED ONTO Main Street in Breuer, Paul scanned the small town with a critical eye. White limestone buildings intermingled with old, German-style gingerbread houses. People smiled and waved to each other from the sidewalks and children played in their front yards. Paul would bet most residents СКАЧАТЬ