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She knocked over a small table near the door, a vase with a single rose sliding to the floor, while on the bed . . . oh, sweet Jesus, on her mother’s feminine bed...
Death.
A small dark hole in the smooth forehead, blood coagulated around the entrance wound, spatters of red on the creamy skin. And the eyes, God, her mother’s eyes, sightless and open, seemingly accusing.
Blood on the ruched duvet and the lamp shades, flecks on the thick, white rug covering the ancient hardwood. “Oh, God, oh, God, oh . . .” Her stomach threatened to heave as she turned and fled, down the narrow hall with its long runner, pictures of the family placed perfectly on the hallway . . . and to the next room and the second body, lying facedown, the back of his head a mangle of blood, bone, and brains visible through a huge gaping wound that had destroyed the graying hair that had once been thick, his pride and joy. She backed up, ran into the wall, banging her shoulder as she raced through the familiar rooms, the acrid scent of blood chasing after her, the horrid images burned in her brain.
As she ran, Ivy retched, threw a hand over her mouth and tasted blood. Salty . . . or was that her tears?
Get out. Get out, now! Don’t step in any of it, don’t get it on your shoes. Run like you’ve never run before!
Images blurred in her vision, the old globe in the library, the books, never read but stacked in neat rows to the high ceiling, the mullioned windows overlooking the city, lights winking through the beveled glass. The banister—don’t touch it!—smoothed by over a century of hands sliding along it.
She was gasping as she hurried down the runner of the steps, her feet flying, her hair streaming behind her as she reached the marbled foyer—NO! Not out the front! What are you thinking? There could be people on the street. Old man Cranston walking his aging dachshund, or the Miller girl who was always running the streets at night, or a stranger . . . no, no, no! The back. You need to go out the back door, through the backyard, to the alley. Then, if no one’s around, cut through the park. Fast. Run, damn it!
She skidded around the bottom of the staircase and through a short hallway toward the rear of the old home.
A creak in the floorboards overhead made her stop short.
Was someone up there?
Someone still alive?
Or the killers?
Who? Who?
Holding her breath, she strained to listen over the frantic trip-hammering of her heart.
Was that a footstep?
A noise on the stairs?
Oh. Dear. God.
She didn’t wait to find out, but flew through the darkened kitchen, her knee banging against a bar stool near the center island. “Ow!” Cutting off the scream, she saw the knife block resting on the marble top. Without a second thought, she yanked the butcher knife from its slot and raced to the back door.
Another creak on the stairs.
Shit!
Fear raced through her bloodstream as she found the doorknob and yanked on the door, the reflection of her own silhouette visible in the glass panels, the cold of winter rushing inside. She thought she saw movement behind her—the killer!
Oh, Jesus. No!
Ivy raced down the back porch, slipping on the last step.
She caught herself, but dropped the knife. It clattered against the brick path and she left it, flew through the back gate and didn’t bother to stop as the gate slammed closed behind her. Running down the narrow, crumbling alley for all she was worth, she splashed through a puddle and scared a cat hiding near the garbage cans. It hissed and backed away, white needle-sharp teeth visible in the dim light of a security lamp on the neighbor’s back porch.
Another screech.
The gate opening on its rusting hinges?
The damned cat scared again?
The killer chasing her down?
She didn’t bother to look over her shoulder. Panicked, she sped headlong into the street.
