Page 88 of Chilled

“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 there 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 had 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 Klaushadto be dead.

Elise couldn’t live through all that again.

Then again...maybe that had been the plan.

Paul Fletcher steppedout 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 searing 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.”

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