Hide (Detective Harriet Foster #1)(89)

The worried look on Silva’s face excited her, and she could almost see the old woman work it through in her head. This was a major inconvenience. She’d have to call someone for a tow or a tire change. Her after-work scotch or bourbon or shower would be pleasures delayed. When Silva reached inside her car and came out with her cell phone, Amelia got out and walked up looking innocent, helpful. “Everything okay there?”

Silva tensed, but when she saw it was a woman, she appeared to relax. “I must have run over something in the road,” she said. “I’ve got a flat.”

“Oh no.” Amelia sounded sympathetic, worried even for the woman’s safety. She checked the tire, kicked it. “It’s flat, all right. I could change it for you. Pop your trunk. I’ll get the spare.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ve got AAA.”

“It’s no trouble,” Amelia said. “I could have you going in fifteen minutes. It’s so late. You don’t want to be out here any longer than you have to be.”

“I didn’t see you on the road behind me,” Silva said.

Amelia could tell Silva was getting nervous, suspicious. The woman took a step away from her. “You weren’t paying attention,” Amelia said. “So, the spare?”

Silva glanced behind her at the stretch of empty road. She was too far away from Westhaven’s gate and the guardhouse. “Thank you, but I’ve got service.” She clutched her phone to her chest like it would protect her. “I’m a doctor. I work at the hospital there. I’ll be fine.”

Amelia stepped forward and lazily kicked at the road, brushing the spikes away with the toe of her boot. “I know who you are, Dr. Silva.”

Silva flicked a look at the driver’s door. It stood open. The steering wheel just inches away. Amelia could tell she wanted to run for the safety of her front seat but didn’t dare move. “What do you want?”

“I’m a Good Samaritan,” Amelia said. “You’re in a bind. I’ve stopped to help.”

Silva slid a look at the spikes, then read the smiling face. “You’re no such thing.”

Amelia slid the knife out of her pocket. She couldn’t stand here all night out in the open. It was then that Silva broke and lunged for the open door. Amelia caught her by the back of her coat and shoved her inside.

“Don’t,” Silva pleaded. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I know,” Amelia said. “I want to.”

The first plunge of the knife hit Silva right below her rib cage, the better for suffering, Amelia decided. Blood quickly flooded her silk blouse as she let out a sorrowful whimper. Amelia so enjoyed the sound of pain. The second strike hit right above Silva’s collarbone, Amelia striking before the good doctor panicked and laid on the car horn in a desperate attempt to sound the alarm. Silva made no sound as blood ran like a river down her torso. Amelia leaned over and whispered in the dying woman’s ear, “Night-night, Doc.”

She lifted the knife for one last go but stopped when something reflected off her knife blade. It was the glare of headlights coming up the road. Out of time. Silva’s head had fallen back against the headrest, her mouth slack, tears trickling down her cheeks. Amelia longed for one more strike but didn’t dare. The headlights were coming. She looked down at Silva, bereft that she wouldn’t be able to watch her breathe her last.

“Die well,” she whispered before pulling a red wig from inside her jacket and placing it on Silva’s head. The wig was a big F U to the cops, one she hoped would have them spinning their wheels to explain. She slammed the door shut, kicked the rest of the spikes to the side of the road, ran back to her car, and sped away. When she hit the main road, she turned left toward the highway. Pumped but denied her payoff.

“No, no, no.”

Each “no” was punctuated by a bang to the steering wheel. She’d planned it so carefully, the time, the method, and she’d meant for it to go so differently, had anticipated it taking hours, not minutes. But her thoughts quickly turned toward self-preservation. Had she brushed every last spike away? Had the driver in the approaching car noticed her fleeing taillights? Though she’d made sure not to touch a thing inside Silva’s car, had she left behind even a single strand of hair? She glued worried eyes on her rearview mirror and drove well below the speed limit. She slowly caught her breath, convincing herself she’d done well enough, that she was sure none of this would be tied back to Bodie or her. Dr. Mariana Silva was dead, and the Morgans would be okay.

By the time she got home, she’d almost convinced herself that they would be. The kill hadn’t been as clean as she would’ve liked or as her father would’ve expected, but it was done. She poured herself a glass of white wine but barely tasted it as it slid down her throat. So she poured another, then another.

Bodie was safe.

She’d done her job.

But it had all happened too quickly.

Angry, she hurled the empty glass against the wall and watched as it shattered into a trillion jagged little pieces. “Now what am I supposed to do with the rest of my fuckin’ night?”





CHAPTER 66


Bodie stared at the detectives looming over him. They’d just shown up at his door in the middle of the night and dragged him out. One cop was a big white guy with a buzz cut, the other a human version of a Ken doll. It was those dead girls. Amelia had told him not to worry, but he did. He didn’t do well under pressure. He shut his eyes to the grim faces and clenched jaws and scornful looks. They stared at him like he was nothing. Defective scum. He hated himself for wishing Am were here to help him.