Fear Nothing: A Detective D.D. Warren Novel (Detective D. D. Warren) by Lisa Gardner

Author:Lisa Gardner [Gardner, Lisa]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-01-07T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

WHAT DID IT FEEL LIKE to open your eyes in the middle of the night and find a killer standing in the middle of your bedroom? The split second when you blinked your eyes owlishly, because such a thing, the silhouette of a man now at the foot of your bed, couldn’t be. It just . . . couldn’t be.

Did you scream? Or did the terror squeeze your throat, compress your chest just as quickly and easily as his hands would soon do. Denial. An innate inability to process. This couldn’t be happening. Not to me. Not here. I’m not this kind of person, I don’t lead this kind of life, I wasn’t meant for this kind of death.

Then the gleam of the finely honed blade moving in the dark . . .

My thoughts scattered. Jumping and leaping as I roamed the overbright shopping mall, surrounded by a sea of humanity and judiciously avoiding all eye contact as I clutched my oversize purse and went about my business.

At the Ann Taylor store. Dutifully trying on a new cream-colored blouse, a pair of camel-colored wool pants. Glancing once at the name tag of the chirpy young sales clerk. Then noticing her pale left hand, devoid of rings, and wondering if she had her own place, a confident single woman with her own apartment. She had brown hair like me, a quick smile.

I wondered if she was the Rose Killer’s type. I’d never thought to ask about hair color, physiology. Ted Bundy had preferred blondes. And my sister’s possible friend?

I fled the store to the women’s restroom, which was thankfully empty. In the end stall. Metallic-blue water bottle out. Clear formaldehyde solution pouring into the toilet. Flushing.

Then back at the sink, rinsing out the bottle more energetically than most. A mother walked in, juggling three large shopping bags and two young kids. She gave me a weary smile, then disappeared into the handicap stall with her charges.

I made a show of refilling my water bottle just in case. Then tucked it in my purse, nestled against a gallon-size bag of crushed glass. Or maybe it was the quart-size bag of human skin.

I left the mall, drove to Target, where at least I had a shopping list.

Six P.M. now. The sun gone, the evening biting. Huddling along with the rest of the postwork commuters, head down, as we performed our final errands before marching home.

The ladies’ room in Target was much more crowded. I had to wait in line for a stall, feeling increasingly self-conscious. Finally, one opened up. I stood before the toilet, fumbling with my purse, then realized belatedly that the waiting patrons would notice my feet facing the wrong way; in that stance, I couldn’t possibly be sitting.

Rearranging myself quickly, purse now on my lap. Waiting for someone to flush so the noise would cover the sound of me working the zipper. I stood at the last minute, dumping half the bag’s contents into the toilet. The bloated strands

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