Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(29)

Chapter Fifteen

Secrets.

So many of them.

Whispering in the woods. Sitting on the bottom of the lake. Threatening to rise from the past and grab him by the ankle.

He would not go down. He’d worked too hard to cover his misdeeds. But frankly, there were too many to bury in one place.

He’d thought he’d snipped off all his loose ends. But some threads had been pulled free. He must cut them off immediately or they would continue to unravel.

But which ends needed to be severed?

Who remembered what?

He couldn’t risk it. They all had to die.

Starting with . . .

He drove past her house one more time. Not too slowly. He couldn’t attract attention, not that he’d seen another car for at least a mile. He lowered his window. The sound of a dog barking floated on the morning breeze.

He fucking hated dogs.

A quarter of a mile down the road, he slowed the car, then turned it around. He needed a plan. No impulsive decisions. No acting without considering the consequences of his actions.

He would not let one mistake ruin his life. No one could know. Ever.

He could still see her mailbox, though trees screened the house from the street. He could park right in the driveway, and no one would know. She was even too far away from her nearest neighbor for the barking dog to be more than a nuisance. Turning at the mailbox, he stopped just past a thick stand of pines. An old Aerostar van was parked near the house.

He slipped out of his car and walked to the front door. A little dog barked on the other side of the door. Maybe he could talk his way inside, then surprise her. But she didn’t answer his knock. The way the dog was yapping, if she was home, she was ignoring the door or in the shower.

The latter idea excited him.

He crept around the side of the house. Inside, the little dog followed his movement, yapping as it ran from room to room. A chain-link fence encircled the rear of the property. The gate squealed when he opened it, so he didn’t bother to shut it. He waded through the high weeds to the back door. Donning a pair of gloves, he tried the sliding glass door. Locked. Cupping a hand over his eyes, he squinted through the glass, but the house was dark inside. He walked around the perimeter, testing windows, until he found one with a broken lock.

Someone needed a lecture on proper home maintenance.

He eased the window up and listened. The only sound he heard was someone snoring and the jingle of dog tags. He boosted himself over the sill, landing in a spare bedroom filled with boxes and random junk. He stood still for a few seconds, but the snoring continued in an even and steady pace.

With a tiny growl, the dog rushed his leg, grabbing his pant leg and hanging on. He kicked it with his other foot. The creature yelped but came back for another nip. The second kick sent it flying into the corner. As it tried to slink out, he grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and tossed it out the window.

Out of sight, out of mind.

His pulse kicked up as he slid out of the room. Adrenaline flooded his veins, giving him an instant erection. It had been years since he’d killed another person. How could he have forgotten the buzz?

A floorboard creaked under his weight as he crept toward the master bedroom. The snoring paused, and he froze just outside the open door.

How could his footstep wake her when the dog’s barking had not?

Bedding rustled, and he held his breath. When the snoring resumed with a snort, his muscles relaxed.

He could feel every heartbeat in his chest, the blood pumping oxygen through his body. His limbs tingled, every inch of him more alive than he had been in years.

Twenty-three of them to be exact.

He peered around the doorframe into the bedroom. The moment of truth.

She lay on her back, one arm flung to the side, her mouth open. Once she’d been attractive, but hard living had taken its toll. Sallow skin and stained teeth showed a lack of personal care, echoed by the bottle of gin and a glass on the nightstand.

Maybe he was doing her a favor. She lived in a dump. She didn’t take care of herself. She was squandering her life. But he bet that when faced with her imminent death, she’d fight to hold on to the very life she was wasting.

There was only one way to find out.

Crossing the room, he slid the rope from his pocket. The end was already tied in a simple noose. He shook out the loop. A tug on the ceiling fan convinced him that it would hold her weight just fine. Years of choosing alcohol over food had left her gaunt.

A chair sat in front of a vanity. He grabbed it and positioned it under the fan.

Easing up to the side of the bed, he leaned close.

“Crystal,” he said.

She shifted in the bed. Her mouth closed, and she swallowed.

“Crystal.” He touched her shoulder.

Her eyes opened. Confusion shifted quickly to alarm. She bolted upright. Her mouth gaped as if to scream, not that it would matter. There was no one close enough to hear. But he clamped a gloved hand over her face and dragged her from the bed. He put her back to his chest and looped his arm around her body. She struggled, her kicks and bucks surprisingly strong for a slender woman of her age. But she was no match for him.

He slipped the simple noose around her neck. No worries about screaming now. She stopped moving, paralyzed with fear. He yanked the noose tight.

“Please, no,” she gurgled, the rope strangling her words, cutting off her air.

Using the rope around her neck and the arm around her body, he lifted her higher. Her feet frantically sought the chair to take the pressure from her throat.