Page 57 of Killer Knows Best

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Phillis waves us in, clearly exasperated. “Come on in. I’ve got them all over the place. Brenda orders them in every size and shape. Heck, I’ve even got dozens of cookie cutters in the shape of that thing. You can take one if you like.”

Brenda.

I glance at Jack. He’s already looking at me, and I can feel the same thought passing between us. Buddy gives a soft woof as if he’s thinking it, too. He’s intuitive that way.

“What do we know about Brenda again?” Nikki asks as her voice rises a notch.

“Her husband died of a heart attack,” I answer, quickly rifling through the mental file we’ve been building.

Phillis shudders. “It was so shocking, too. The man was fit as a fiddle. My daughter worked as his secretary before he passed. He sold commercial property. I hate to say this, but the stories my daughter told me...well, the man was a philanderer.”

Jack shoots Nikki and me a look before leaning in. “I thought you said you met Brenda after her husband died?”

Phillis offers a mournful smile. “I did.” She flicks her wrist at the thought. “Small world, right?”

Small worldis up there with the wordcoincidence, and I don’t believe in either.

I spot a large framed photo of Madeline Hazelwood smiling at us from above the fireplace. She’s stunning, youthful, and very much the picture of life. Looking at her, one thing is clear.

“She was no high-end escort,” I say.

Nikki nods. “They were having an affair.”

Phillis gasps as her eyes grow wide with horror. “Are you accusing my dead daughter of something?”

“We need to leave,” Jack says and the three of us dart for the truck.

We’re about to jump in when Buddy takes off toward the big house and barks up a storm as if he’s about to catch a killer himself.

“What the heck is he doing?” I ask in disbelief as we watch Buddy run circles around the porch.

“Squirrel,” Nikki says as she scrolls through some social feed and a photo of Madeline Hazelwood’s face flashes across the screen.

Jack shakes his head as we watch Buddy sniffing and barking around the periphery of the entry. “That’s no squirrel.” He tips his head toward the overgrown hovel and its dark death stare into the night. “There’s something in that house.”

38

MARSHA WARREN

Ahard groan evicts from my lungs. My throat feels raw and burns like fire.

My head throbs rhythmically as if someone has been jackhammering inside my skull all night. Everything feels off—my body, my mind, theair, the surface under me. I pat my hands to the floor under my skin and it’s hard and cold as concrete.

A faint light spills from somewhere beyond the room and it manages to cut a line through the darkness. My eyes strain to focus, but everything is fuzzy and just out of reach. I blink, trying to bring the room into focus, and then I look down.

I’m naked.

A surge of panic rushes through me. I quickly inspect myself. Sure enough, my body is bare, with the exception of a long scrape that glides down my stomach. My fingers rise to meet it and it stings as if it’s still fresh.

What the hell is happening?

Was I roofied?

My mouth tastes like metal, and my tongue is thick like I’ve been drugged—and this powerful headache. I tug at my wrists,and there’s the cold clink of metal, but when I lift my hands, the chains slip right off.

“Oh, thank you,” I whisper as I quickly rub at my sore wrists. “I’m free.”

A surge of adrenaline explodes through my veins and I’m ready to bolt until I spot the manacles clasped over my ankles and somehow I manage to wrangle those open and soon I’m untethered.

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