Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane #3)(30)

Her head was just below the fan. He estimated the distance needed between her feet and the floor and wrapped the rope around the base of the fan. Before he tied off the end, he left a few inches of slack.

She wheezed as the extra length allowed her to take a single breath.

He smiled.

And kicked the chair out from under her.

Her eyes went wide, and her bladder released, soaking her gray sweatpants. The sharp scent of urine hit his nostrils. He stepped back as her body dangled at the end of the rope. Her toes stretched toward the floor, but she couldn’t reach. Her arms and legs flailed, her movements violent.

Panicked.

Desperate.

Her hands went to her neck. Her fingers clawed at the rope. Her nails raked her own skin, leaving bloody trails on her neck. But she couldn’t free herself.

Death came in a minute or two as the tight rope cut off both her breathing and blood flow. He watched as her face slackened. Her arms and legs stopped moving. Life faded from her eyes until she stopped seeing him. Her body swayed for a few minutes, then stilled.

It was done.

This must be what an addict experiences when he finally gives in to his urges. Was the rush of heroin similar to this?

He should be ashamed. He should feel guilty, but all that surged through his body was satisfaction.

He’d silenced her so she wouldn’t talk. But he’d enjoyed every second of the act. It didn’t matter how long he’d maintained his self-control. Deep inside, he was a killer.

Crystal had been the first thread to be snipped. But there were more that needed severing.

He backed away from the swaying body, savoring the sight. The cell phone in his pocket begged to take a picture so that he could relive this moment forever. But he resisted. Stupid mistakes could get him caught. Instead, he simply stared, imprinting the sight in his mind. His memory would have to suffice.

A few seconds later, he backed out of the bedroom. He crept back to the open window. The overgrown yard was empty. He slipped out the window and back across the weeds to the driveway and his car.

He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t enjoyed the kill any more than he could pretend that he wasn’t looking forward to the next death.





Chapter Sixteen

If Sharp closed his eyes, he could picture everything as it had been in 1994. Jenny becoming more hysterical as the hours passed. Ten-year-old Lance trying to calm her. He’d been just a boy, but he’d become his mother’s caretaker that night. Sharp had helped as much as he could. His only other option had been to put Lance into foster care, and Sharp had seen too many kids destroyed by that system. In his opinion, unless a kid was in major danger, he was better off with his own family.

They’d survived, but neither Jenny nor Lance had lived a full life. Until now. Until Morgan had entered the picture. It had taken Lance bringing a woman around for Jenny to see that her illness had a death grip on her son as well as herself.

Morgan had made all the difference. And Sharp would be damned if he’d let Vic Kruger’s disappearance put Lance’s newfound joy in jeopardy.

This time, he was going to find the truth. This time, he would not fail them. But what if the truth was more painful than they’d ever imagined? Vic’s car had been found in a lake with a woman’s body in the trunk. If Sharp were investigating that discovery, with no previous connection to the case, he might conclude that Vic had killed the girl, covered up the murder by putting her in the lake, and left town because of his crime. But if he wanted to dispose of a body, Vic could have dumped her in the lake and gone home. No one would have known. There would have been no need to complicate the situation by using his own car.

Unless Vic also wanted out of his marriage and the stressful situation. In that case, it made perfect sense.

Shit.

Should he share the theory with Lance? Not yet. He’d keep it in the back of his mind and see where the evidence led.

Sharp cruised to a stop at the sign and turned right.

Crystal Fox lived in Grey’s Hollow, a mostly rural community just north of Scarlet Falls. Weeds and woods lined both sides of the country road. At six o’clock in the evening, the sun had set, but the night wasn’t yet full dark. In the gray twilight, Sharp passed a rundown farmhouse with a sagging porch and a barnyard full of knee-high weeds.

A quarter mile later, he turned at a broken mailbox onto a narrow, rutted driveway. Trees arched overhead and shadowed the lane.

Ahead, taillights glowed in the dim, and Sharp spotted Lance’s Jeep. Morgan and Lance were already there. As soon as Sharp pulled in next to the Jeep, they climbed out and waited for him on the driveway.

The small one-story house was muddy brown and miserable looking. Paint peeled from the front door. Shutters and roof shingles were missing. A lamppost halfway between the driveway and the house stood dark. The porch light wasn’t on either, and the lawn, more meadow than grass, hadn’t seen a mower since the 1970s.

“The place feels empty,” Sharp said on his way up what had once been a brick path.

A whimper caught his attention. “Did you hear that?”

Morgan was already on it, moving toward an overgrown shrub under a dirty bay window. Flashlight in hand, Lance hurried to get in front of her. Looking out for her took some effort on his part. That girl took care of her own business. Putting an arm in front of Morgan to stop her, Lance crouched, separated the foliage, and shone his flashlight into the shrubs.