Page 29

That horrid, deadly, and oh-so-bloody night.
She saw the photos online, even black and white photos of the crime scene, bodies draped, Christmas tree tilted, fireplace yawning, and all the bloodstains, on every surface.
The murder weapon had been located, of course, the sword that had been mounted over Jonas’s bed, a relic from the Spanish–American War, one, she knew now, that had been carried by one of her relatives, a great-great-great uncle or something. She couldn’t remember the right number of greats and the wine didn’t help. At that thought, she poured herself “one last glass” and sipped it slowly as she read through the articles about the Christmas Eve her family was so mercilessly destroyed.
The sword, it now seemed, was the reason Jonas was getting out of prison. Margrove had never given up on his client, even after losing the initial case.
The prosecution had been ruthless, certain that Jonas, the second and rebellious son of Samuel McIntyre Senior, was the killer. Jonas certainly had fit the profile: a teen who had always been at odds with his family, a loner who had been in and out of trouble with the law. An eighteen-year-old who’d had girlfriend and anger issues. Jonas McIntyre had “flipped out,” the assistant DA had said before explaining what that meant in professional terms, a psychotic break that had turned tragically violent. Jonas had killed his family not by intentional premeditated murder, but because of a violent burst of anger where he was totally out of control. And the wounds he’d sustained? Either because one of the victims had fought back or they’d been self-inflicted. The DA had gone to great lengths and detail, showing how Jonas, an athlete and gymnast, had been able to contort and slice himself.
Even so, the jury might not have been convinced except that Jonas’s fingerprints had been discovered all over a sword that was not only over a hundred years old but also the murder weapon.
But now, that key piece of evidence was in dispute.
A cop who had worked the scene, Randall Isley, had admitted that there was a screwup that night, that the sword in question had been lost for a bit, that in all of the hubbub of the scene, there had been a crucial forty-five minutes when the sword had been misplaced, and as such the chain of custody of a valuable piece of evidence broken, and that little fact had been covered up by the department.
Isley, now retired, had given a sworn affidavit to Merritt Margrove, who had taken it to a judge.
The end result was that after serving only a portion of his sentence, Jonas had been released.
Kara felt a headache starting to form. She rubbed her temples and from her chair in the kitchen noticed Rhapsody staring at the back door. Not moving, just looking as if she could see through the panels.
“What?”
The dog gave a low growl.
Kara’s heart clutched. “Oh, Jesus.”
Throat suddenly dry, she scraped her chair back and walked into the kitchen. “Stop it,” she said.
Rhapsody didn’t move.
The hackles rose along the back of her furry neck.
Pulse jumping, Kara slid to the window and peered through the blinds into the night. The backyard was as she’d last seen it. Empty. Nothing changed. The night still. Peaceful. A light snow falling.
Slowly, she let out her breath, took steps backward and reached for the wall switch, cutting the lights, hoping her silhouette was no longer visible. Still she saw nothing. “You’re scaring me,” she told the dog, but kept her gaze riveted to the backyard.
Was there movement near the arborvitae? A rustle of leaves in the laurel near the corner of the property, a spot in the fence line where some of the collected snow had been disturbed? And were those footprints along the hedge line, a path made by someone, now covered in snow? Or the product of her oh-too-fertile imagination?
She swallowed back her fear. There was no one in her backyard. No one watching her. No footsteps, just a spot in the yard near the fence where the ground dipped beneath the snow-flocked arborvitae. She reached for the blinds over the sink and snapped them closed, then as Rhapsody whined, Kara went through her usual routine, counting the doors as she made sure they were locked. Garage to kitchen. “One.” Back door from kitchen. “Two.” Through the dining room, the living area and front door. “Three.” Using the remote, she switched off the fire and whistled to the dog, then mounted the stairs to the second floor and her bedroom tucked tightly under the eaves. With sloped ceilings and old pine floors, there was just room for a double bed.
Cozy and tight.
Safe.
She didn’t bother with the lamp but walked to the window and looked again to the snow-covered yard. Ice glazed the bird bath, snow covered the pots where last summer’s geraniums had died, the only break in the white blanket caused by Rhapsody earlier.
She saw no dark figure lurking in the shadows, no killer hiding in the shrubbery.
Still, she pulled down the shades before snapping on a bedside light and the dog, having given up her post at the back door, padded noisily up the stairs and entered the bedroom. “Okay, you ready to settle down?” she asked as Rhapsody leapt onto the bed.
Kara closed the bedroom door and threw the dead bolt she’d installed herself. “Four,” she said, and despite the wine stain on her PJs, slid between the covers.
She thought about the sleeping pills in the top drawer of her nightstand but didn’t bother and instead picked up the book that had dropped to the floor. Nonfiction. All about facing one’s demons and women’s empowerment.
Dry. Lofty. And guaranteed to make a person drowsy.
Except it didn’t.