Born To Die (Alvarez & Pescoli)

Then she opened the door of her Edge and slid behind the wheel.

Still holding Eli’s hand, Trace watched as she nosed the Ford out of its space and drove away. He bustled his son to his own truck, parked nearby, and as he headed out of town, he thought about her and Leanna and Jocelyn Wallis and Shelly friggin’ Bonaventure.

Two were dead.

One was missing.

And the fourth, Kacey, had glanced guardedly over her shoulder as she’d shepherded Eli across the street earlier.

Three of them had ties to Helena.

And they all resembled each other.

As he slowed for the stoplight near Shorty’s Diner, he wondered what the hell, if anything, their connection was.

She was home!

He heard the key in her lock, the creak of the kitchen door, and the sound of her footsteps as she crossed the kitchen floor.

It was amazing how crisp the quality of the sound was, and he settled deeper into his chair to listen remotely as she snapped on the radio and ripped something that sounded like paper. Oh, of course. Her mail!

Though he had no camera equipment—he hadn’t risked that yet—he could imagine Acacia walking through her house, kicking off her shoes ... running the bathwater. . . .

That a girl ...

In his mind’s eye he watched as she pinned up her hair, then stripped off her clothes, tossing them into a corner in the bathroom. Then, naked, her nipples tight and hard with the cold air, she would settle herself into the steaming tub.

Would she add a stream of bubble bath and let the foam surround her? Perhaps light a candle or two and watch the flames flicker and gleam against the cold panes of the frosted window? Would she sink down low enough in the tub that the tendrils of hair on her nape would become damp? Would the water drops glisten on her long legs as she hooked her ankles over the rim of her old claw-footed tub?

He licked his lips and traced the tip of his finger along that narrow little scar at his temple, the spot where she, with his knife, had sliced his skin so neatly.

His heart was beating loudly in his ears as he heard a soft little splash over the headphones. He didn’t really have time for this; there was so much to do and yet ... He leaned back and closed his eyes. His heart was beating fast now; his breathing a little shallow; his cock coming to life.

Imagining the slim column of her throat, he envisioned the very knife with which she had forever scarred him, a shining blade that sliced neatly across her white skin. As her eyes widened in her surprise, drops of blood formed, glittering gemlike upon her skin before running in dark rivulets down her sternum and over her breasts to slide into the water and bloom a deep scarlet. White bubbles floated, dissipating, becoming stained, as she sank into the warm pool.

He let out a soft moan at the image, a ripple of pleasure moving through him.

Now!

“No.” His own voice startled him, but he told himself to hold on to his patience, that he couldn’t give in to primal urges. There were others who had to be dealt with first! “Wait,” he told himself, but deep within him, in the darkest corners of his heart, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. With Acacia Collins Lambert, it was personal.

As he listened via the tiny hidden microphone to the gentle lap of water surrounding her, he imagined her lying in her own cooling blood. Soon, she would breathe her last.

Again he traced his scar, running his finger along the thin white slice, the cleaved hairline at his temple. Barely visible, but a reminder. His eyes narrowed, and he stood to look into a round mirror he’d placed on the wall over his desk.

For a moment, he thought he saw her behind him.

Acacia!

Staring into the mirror and laughing at him! As if she expected him!

Startled, he whipped around.

But no one was there. Of course not. What he’d seen was the coatrack and a sweatshirt with a hood dangling from one hook.

His breathing slightly erratic, he returned his gaze to the mirror again, and the scar that she had left.

Few people noticed the thin white line.