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And then she saw the knife.
Small.
Deadly.
Wicked.
It gleamed in the dimly lit room.
No! She fought harder, but she was no match for her attacker, who had a small pillow and shoved it over her face. She tried to drag in air, to scream, to save herself, but it was too late. Her attacker was too strong. Too determined. Her vain efforts at kicking and hitting pitifully feeble.
Her lungs were on fire.
Pain blinded her and she struggled frantically.
But it was no use.
With a sickening realization, Ginny Slade knew she was about to die.
“So what do I call you now?” Zach asked as he paced to the window. “Adria? Or London?”
“Adria,” she said, her throat thick, her eyes misting. This was the first of their good-byes. “I hope to you, I’ll always be Adria.”
The minutes, recorded by the grandfather clock in the hall, ticked by; outside, the ever-present traffic moved sluggishly up the hill.
Adria wondered how much longer she had with Zach, how few minutes. Her heart felt as if it were breaking into a thousand pieces as she stared at him. His broad shoulders were rigid, tense with strain; one thumb was hooked through a belt loop and his fingers hung near the faded denim of his fly. His jaw was dark with a beard shadow and his eyes, beneath heavy black brows, were narrowed suspiciously. He shifted from one foot to the other, pretending interest in the view from the bay window before glancing back to the stairwell.
“Shit, what could be taking so long?”
“She’s packing her things…” Adria said, but even she was conscious of the time.
Mrs. Bassett, with a golden-haired child of about seven in tow, clomped down the stairs and hurried back into the room. “I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough,” Mrs. Bassett said, her eyes shifting quickly to the stairwell and back again. “To think that I trusted her with my precious Chloe. Oh, God, it just makes me shudder. I called Harry and he wants to press charges against her for false representation or whatever you call it. He’s phoning our lawyer right now. Oh, dear.” Kissing her child’s crown, she said, “Why don’t you go practice your piano, baby.”
“Don’t want to,” the girl said churlishly, though her mother was shepherding her toward the upright near the fireplace. Chloe crossed her chubby arms stubbornly in front of her chest.
“Well…” Wringing her hands, Mrs. Bassett spied the basket of cakes near the tea service. “Here, then, how about a sweet?” She placed the platter in front of the girl. “Oh, my, I’ve completely forgotten my manners. Could I please offer you a cup of tea? The least I could do, you know.”
“Thanks,” Adria said, but Zachary only shook his head and glowered at the stairwell as if he were afraid Ginny might disappear again.
Mrs. Bassett frowned suddenly. “I thought you called the police.”
“We did. They should be here any minute—” Adria said.
“Is there another way out of the basement?” Zach asked suddenly.
“Oh, no…well, there’s a coal chute, but it’s been closed for years, and some old cellar stairs, but they’re boarded over. If there were a fire, the windows are large enough—”
“Christ!” Moving with the speed of a cheetah, he raced out of the parlor, across the foyer, and down the stairs with lightning speed.
How could he have been so stupid? Vaulting over the rail of the stairs, he landed loudly on the cement floor and felt the cool rush of fresh air before he saw the curtains fluttering noiselessly in the breeze.
The basement was dark and he walked unerringly to a small, cozy room in a back corner where the bedroom light glowed warmly. “Ginny?” he called, feeling an eerie breeze, the premonition of doom scurrying up the back of his neck.
Muscles rigid, Zach stepped into the room. A suitcase, lying open, had been thrown on the bed. Clothes dangled from hangers in the open closet. One drawer in a tiny bureau was askew, underwear and nightgowns falling onto the floor. “Ginny?” he called again, but there was still no answer.
The hairs on the back of his neck raised as he crossed the room and threw open the door to a tiny bathroom. Red splashes were everywhere. Blood stained the walls and splattered the sink and toilet. Ginny Slade was lying on the cracked linoleum. Her tongue hung limply from her mouth, her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, and her wrists were slashed, blood still oozing from the open wounds. A sharp knife was clenched in her right fist.
Zach stepped back, recoiling from the room splattered in blood and the sightless eyes that stared up at him. “Call 911!” he yelled up the stairs. “Adria, call the police! We need an ambulance.”
