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Why? So unlike her husband.
The bottle of Merlot was still open on the island, a red ring visible and staining the marble countertop.
She frowned.
Hamilton knew better. In fact he was as nit-picky and meticulous—even anal—about his kitchen as he had been in the OR at the hospital.
What the hell?
And what was this note card with a black rose etched on its front, like a damned wedding invitation for vampires? Good God. Was he now into calligraphy as well as attempting to become the next Julia Child?
She opened the note and read the scripted words:
~Thou shalt not commit adultery . . .
Exodus 20:14~
What?
Now Hamilton was writing down Bible verses? About adultery no less.
She knew he liked being on the board at St. Ada’s, but this—? Quoting the Old Testament? Writing it down in some creepy, cryptic funereal missive?
Had he gone completely around the bend?
His own glass of wine, left near the stove, was untouched. The stew on the burner was roiling wildly, blue gas flames curling over the bottom of the pan. To top it all off, she noticed fine marks on the counter suggesting that he’d marred it. Recently. She knew the scratches hadn’t been there yesterday. Now, she ran her finger over the smooth surface, feeling a series of the barest of grooves. Was this the cause of that damned scratching sound? As if he’d sharpened a knife on the counter? For the love of God, what had Hamilton been thinking? What was wrong with him?
“Ham?” she said again, and felt a breath of distress blow across her nape.
Where was he?
What had been that horrid scratching sound?
As she turned toward the door of the darkened pantry, hanging ajar, she felt all of her nerves tighten.
“Hamilton?” she said again, slightly irritated as she turned off the stove and that Mad Max of a fan. The noise receded and now she could hear the erratic beating of her heart. “This isn’t funny.”
She passed by the knife block near the stove and pulled out the long fillet knife, though that was ridiculous. She was in her own home with her husband and . . . Oh, God. Was the back door open? Just slightly? Unlocked? She strode to it and found the dead bolt unengaged and thought maybe Hamilton was outside.
Had he ducked out for a cigar? Another bad habit that had to be broken.
Or had he dashed outside to the garage to get something out of his car?
She stared across the lighted brick path to the old carriage house that served as their garage. Was the side door of the garage open as well?
Why?
The hairs on her nape rose and her throat was suddenly dry as sand. She grasped the hilt of her knife in a death grip.
“Darling?” she called anxiously again, and heard the scrape of a shoe on the floor behind her. He’d been inside all the time! “What do you think—?” She turned then and saw the glint of a knife’s short blade.
“What?” she whispered, recognizing the oyster-shucking tool for what it was.
She gasped, her eyes meeting his. “NO!”
The razor-sharp edge slashed across her throat. “Oh, yessss. ‘Darling, ’” he mocked.
She swung her own knife, its long blade plunging through his clothing to the flesh below. She tried to slice, but her legs wobbled.
