Dark Shadows (Gia Santella Crime Thrillers Book 11), Kristi Belcamino [ereader with dictionary .TXT] 📗

There were no bodies floating in it this morning.

The others had cleaned up any remnants of their occupancy from the night before. Towels were neatly folded on a lawn chair. No empty cups or bottles. No trash. Even the ashtrays were emptied.

For some reason, I felt uneasy.

The police would be here soon to arrest Amanda.

But was she guilty?

I took a quick shower, pulled on some baggy sweatpants and a tiny camisole top, and headed downstairs to make some coffee. Not for the first time, I regretted not staying in a hotel where I could order room service.

I walked past the other bedrooms on my way to the stairs. All the doors were shut.

Downstairs, I jumped and nearly screamed when I passed by Owen sprawled in a big leather armchair in the living room. I froze until I heard him snore loudly.

A bottle of some brown alcohol lay on the Persian rug at his feet. His head was thrown back and his mouth was wide open. Even so, he was sort of sweet-looking in sleep. But he might have killed Lucas. Had Amanda suspected it and kicked him out of her bed last night, sending him to drink himself into a stupor down here?

In the kitchen, I grabbed a large chef’s knife and put it on the counter between me and the entrance to the living room, just in case. I wasn’t afraid of him. But I also didn’t really trust anyone in the house at this point. Might as well anticipate any possible scenario. It was what a warrior would do. It had been much too long since I had to think like that.

Even the last attack on my family had been handled by Rose.

A lunatic had gone after Nico, and Rose had taken her down.

Thinking of Rose made my heart suddenly clench. I missed that girl more than I could say. It seemed like every minute, she was drawing further and further away from me. The more intent she became on finding and killing her enemy, the less she wanted to do with me.

On some level I understood. It hurt her too much to have a close relationship with me. I’d been there. I got it on a deep level. But that didn’t mean I had to like it.

Once Nico no longer recognized her, she’d fled.

I was lucky if she responded to my calls and texts once every two months.

As I thought all of this, I ground the beans for the coffee while the hot water heated in a kettle on the stove. I glanced into the living room to see if all the commotion had woken Owen. But his head was still thrown back, and his eyes were closed.

Soon, the water was ready, and I poured it into the French press. I pushed down slowly at first but then impatiently plunged it all the way and poured my first cup, which was about half the pot. I missed my Moka pot, but this still made a damn good cup of coffee.

Taking my coffee cup and the French press pot, I slipped out the back door and settled into a chair near the pool, watching as the sun poured over the edge of the tall wall and lit up the white marble patio and backyard.

I knew I should enjoy the peace before all hell broke loose. I wondered when the detective was going to arrive with his dark news and arrest warrant.

I finished my first cup, dusted off the second, and then headed back into the kitchen. I dumped the cup and pot and walked past Owen again. Out cold. Still.

Upstairs, I was suddenly compelled to talk to Amanda. I didn’t know why. I just honestly didn’t think she was a killer. I wanted to hear what she had to say before the detective arrived. Maybe, just maybe, if she convinced me she was innocent, I could intervene before her arrest.

I knocked softly on her door. As I did, it slowly swung open a few inches.

“Amanda?” I said in a low voice.

There was no answer.

“Amanda?” I said again. Then I pushed my head inside. I saw a leg. Where it shouldn’t be: on the floor. I stepped all the way inside. It only took a quick glance to see the plume of blood that flared out on the carpet around Amanda’s midsection. She was face down, her head turned away from me. She wore tiny athletic shorts and a T-shirt that was pushed part way up her back. As I drew closer, I saw her face. It was a ghastly color. Even so, I raced over and knelt down to check for a pulse I knew wouldn’t be there.

13

Standing in the doorway of Amanda’s room, I dialed Commissaire Boucher.

He answered on the first ring.

“Bad news.”

There was a sharp intake of breath and then he asked, “Who?”

“Amanda.” I said the name in a whisper because I’d heard some noise downstairs.

“I’m on my way.”

I hung up and turned to see Owen standing there behind me.

“Jesus,” I said, startled.

He was holding a butcher knife down by his side.

His eyes grew wide when he saw me take in the knife.

He started to say something, but I’d already wound up and kicked his wrist. The knife clattered to the floor, but I wasn’t done. I yanked his arm and twisted it, bringing him to his knees, and then jutted my knee up into his solar plexus.

Then he was on the ground, and I was on his back while he moaned.

“You got it wrong,” he gasped out.

“Oh, yeah? Why did you come at me with a knife?”

“I heard something upstairs and grabbed the knife in case it was an intruder.”

“Really?” I said sarcastically.

“Swear to God.”

I lifted my knee off his back.

Then I leaped off of him and stood a few feet away, kicking the knife further down the hall behind me before I whirled to face him again. I watched as he pulled