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Though she’d have preferred an empty house, Eve walked back to the front door. She imagined the dark, the quality of it in the odd blue glow of the security lights. An efficient killer would have already sealed up, hair, hands, shoes. Extra protection, extra soundproofing with booties over the shoes. No chance of leaving any sort of print.
Directly upstairs, she thought. Down to business—priority business, she decided as she climbed the stairs. No squeaks, she noted, no creaks. Solid construction. Straight to the master bedroom, no detours. The door would be closed, as it was now. Not sealed though, she thought as she used her master to uncode the police seal.
She turned the knob, eased the door open. Again, it was soundless. Privacy shields over the windows, she recalled, and heavy blackout drapes over that. Tommy liked to sleep in his snug cave.
Pitch-black. It would be pitch-black. Even someone knowing the room intimately couldn’t be sure how the victim would be positioned in the bed. A pin light would be enough, she mused. Just a thin beam to show the way.
Because she didn’t want to be disturbed, she closed and locked the door behind her. “Lights on,” she ordered, and took the time to arrange the room as it would have been for the killer. “Lights off,” she ordered when she stood back at the door, and flipping on a pin light, used it to cross to the bed.
Syringe first. Knock him out. Did he stir? Feel that quick little nip over the skin? Count to ten—it doesn’t take long—count to ten, slow and steady.
What are you thinking? she wondered. Excitement, fear? Not rage, can’t be rage. He’s already beyond you, you saw to that, so it’s not rage.
Turn the lights back on now. No need to work in the dark. “Lights on, fire on,” Eve ordered.
Did you bring the rope, or did he have that tucked away?
You brought it. Have to be sure, can’t screw up now. You have to have all the tools at hand.
Was he nude already, or did you strip him? If you stripped him, where did you put the sleep clothes. A trophy?
Wrists first. Do you feel his breath, his heavy, drugged breath on your skin when you bind his wrists? They’re limp, deadweight. He’s already helpless, but you have a stage to set. Wrists first.
Then the ankles.
Set out the toys.
Time for the next dose. You want him hard. Slide the rings on his cock. How do you feel, fondling him when he’s helpless? Enjoyment or disgust? Or neither. Is it all just the next step now?
Takes time, all this window dressing. Takes time, and effort. Have to get into bed with death now to finish it.
Eve hitched up, braced a knee on the bed. Not enough leverage, she decided, and climbed on until she knelt beside her mind picture of Anders, imagined tying the last rope, winding it around his neck. Heavy head. Secure the second end of the rope and the head falls forward. It practically does the work for you.
She eased off the bed again, smoothed out any depression. Study the work, she mused, go over your checklist. How’s his breathing? Is it already changing? Is his system already sending out alarm signals his mind and body can’t answer?
Pack up the light, the syringes, walk away. Leave the door open.
Unlike the killer, Eve locked and sealed it. When she walked downstairs, her mind still walking alongside the killer, she saw Greta sitting stiff-spined in a chair in the foyer.
“Mr. Forrest asked if I’d stay, in case you needed anything. He’s taken Mrs. Anders to Ms. Plowder’s home.”
“No, I’ve got all I need. You should go home.”
“Yes, I should go home.” She put on the serviceable coat draped over her arm.
“Greta, what did Mr. Anders wear in bed?”
“I beg your pardon!”
“There were pajamas in his drawer. You supervise the laundry, correct?”
“I—Yes, of course. Mr. Anders wore sensible pajamas. A fresh pair daily, pressed. No starch.”
“How many pairs did he have?”
“At last count, which would have been Monday last, Mr. Anders owned ten pairs of all-cotton pajamas.”
“Ten pairs. Did Mr. Anders routinely use sleep aids?”
