Page 132 of Deeper Than the Dead

SUV. Black.

Another burst of adrenaline had her straightening, her gaze sharpening.

Maybe not the one that ran her off the road but one like it. Seemed a bit of a coincidence if this was where Brooks lived.

Vera didn’t believe in coincidences.

Fury tightened her jaw.

She tried to twist around. Spotted the rusty Mustang—trunk lid up—and another, newer sedan, before Florence yanked her back around. She recognized the second vehicle. She’d parked next to it at the judge’s house.

It was a setup. Son of a—

“Step up,” Florence demanded.

Vera concentrated on climbing the four steps that led onto the rickety deck. Three steps later they were at the front door.

The pain and anger twisted inside Vera. The sun was beating down on her head. She needed to throw up again. But first she had to get out of this insane situation.

Beatrice turned loose of Vera’s arm and opened the door. Florence pushed her inside. She stumbled forward and landed on her knees. The crash landing had pain bursting in her skull.

When the world stopped spinning and the pain lessened enough, Vera’s gaze settled on what was right in front of her.

Pete Brooks.

He lay flat on his back on the matted blue-and-green shag carpet. Eyes closed. The way his arms were tucked under him, his hands appeared to be secured behind his back. No visible injuries. Was he dead?

Holy shit.

“What did you do?” Vera dared to move her head so that she could glare at Beatrice. “Did you kill him?”

“Get her up,” Florence ordered.

Beatrice grasped Vera’s right arm once more and helped her to her feet.

Brooks stirred.

Vera stared at him. His chest rose, then fell. He wasn’t dead. Relief flooded her chest. Then she considered what she knew about him and decided maybe she should be worried instead of relieved.

“He’s waking up,” Florence said. “We don’t have much time. We have to do this now.”

“Do what?” Not that it wasn’t perfectly clear what they had planned, but Vera intended to make these two crazy old ladies say it out loud. She resisted the urge to shake her head. This was like something out of a bizarre comedy, with diabolical seniors playing thugs. Or in this case, killers.

But this was no movie ... these women had killed before. If there had been any doubt in Vera’s mind about that, it was gone now.

Florence removed the backpack she wore and reached inside. When she drew her hand out, she held a revolver. That was when Vera noticed the woman was wearing gloves. Vera wasn’t surprised. Apparently Florence had learned a few tricks since the last time she committed murder.

“We have to do it now,” she said to Beatrice. “Otherwise, we’ll run out of time.”

Beatrice nodded her understanding.

Florence aimed the gun—looked like a .38—at Vera. “Move her into position.”

Vera steeled herself even as her heart pounded in time with the throb in her skull. Beatrice took hold of her again and ushered her toward Brooks.

“Wait. Wait. Wait.” Vera stalled, digging her heels into that nasty vintage shag carpet. “What exactly are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, Vee,” Beatrice said. “You shouldn’t have come back. You should have left it alone.”

---