Circle of Death (Damask Circle 2)

If she had talked to the wind tonight, she might still be alive.

Tears tracked heat down Kirby’s cheeks. She raised her face to the sky again, letting the rain chill her skin. Don’t cry for Helen, she thought. Find the answers. Make sense of her death.

But where to start?

Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned slightly, watching the young police officer approach. Just for an instant, her vision blurred, and instead of the policeman, it was a gnarled, twisted being with red hair and malevolent yellow eyes. It reached out to grasp her soul—to kill, as it had killed Helen and Ross. Fear

squeezed her throat tight, making it suddenly difficult to breathe. She stepped back, half turning, ready to run, but then the being became the young officer again. He dropped his hand, a surprised look on his face.

“I didn’t mean to startle you, Miss Brown.”

“You didn’t. I just …” She hesitated, then shrugged.

He nodded, as if understanding. “Arrangements have been made for you to spend the night at the motel down the road—if that’s okay with you.”

“Yeah, sure.” Where she was didn’t really matter right now. It wasn’t as if she’d be able to sleep.

He frowned slightly, as though her attitude bothered him in some way. “Would you like to collect some clothes or toiletries before you go?”

“I’m allowed inside?” she asked, surprised.

He nodded. “Only upstairs. The kitchen and living rooms are still out of bounds, I’m afraid.”

And would be for some time—for her, at least. It was doubtful whether she’d ever be able to enter the house without remembering. She rubbed her arms again, suddenly chilled. Though she was soaked through to the skin, she knew that wasn’t the cause. It was more the sense that death was out there—and that it wasn’t finished yet.

“Ready when you are, Miss Brown,” the young officer prompted when she didn’t move.

Her hand brushed his as she headed for the door. His skin was cold—colder even than hers. As cold as the dead. She shivered and shoved her imagination back in its box. It was natural for his hands to be cold. The night was bitter, and he’d spent a good amount of time out on the veranda, watching her.

She kept her eyes averted from the living room as she ran up the stairs. Her bedroom was the first on the left, Helen’s on the right. Helen’s door was open and the bed still made. She and Ross had obviously been making out on the sofa again.

Swallowing heavily, Kirby headed for her wardrobe and grabbed a backpack. She shoved whatever came to hand into it—sweaters, jeans and a couple of T-shirts—then headed over to the dressing table to collect underwear. And saw, on top of the dresser, a small, gift-wrapped package.

She stared at it for several seconds without moving. Helen had known, she thought. Or at least had sensed that she might not be around for their mutual birthday, in two days. Tears blurred her vision, and a sob caught at her throat. She grabbed the present, shoving it into the pack, then opened the drawer, grabbed a handful of underwear and stuffed that in as well.

She turned and found the young officer standing in the doorway, watching her closely. Though his stance was casual, there was a coldness in his eyes that sent another chill down her spine.

“Ready to go?” he asked, pushing away from the door frame.

She hesitated, then felt stupid for doing so. He was here to help her, not hurt her. She bit her lip and walked toward him. He didn’t move, forcing her to brush past him again. Once more her vision seemed to blur, and it was leathery, scaly skin she was brushing past, not the uniformed presence of the young police officer.

“Want me to carry that backpack for you?” he asked, reaching for it.

She stepped away quickly. “No. I’m okay.”

He frowned again, then shrugged. “This way, then, Miss Brown.”

He led the way down the stairs. Another officer, a blond-haired man in his mid-forties, joined him at the base. “Constable John Ryan,” he said to her, his voice as kind as his brown eyes. “Constable Dicks and I have been assigned to keep an eye on you for the night.”

Her fear stirred anew. “You think the murderer might be after me as well?” She knew he was, but it was not something she wanted to say out loud—as if by voicing her fears she would invite the presence to step further into her life.

“Just precautionary measures, that’s all.”

His smile never touched his eyes, and she knew he was lying. He motioned her to follow the young officer. They stepped into the wind and rain and sloshed their way across to the nearest squad car. Constable Ryan held open the back door and ushered her inside.

“It won’t be long,” he said. “Then you can finally relax.”

Relax? Knowing death was out there, waiting for her? But she forced a smile, knowing he meant well.