Page 30 of Mr. Strategic

Reuben looked up with a smile.

“A surprise for you,” he said. “I’ve got a private chef and catering company in to do dinner.”

“Lovely,” I said. “That’s really thoughtful of you.”

I wondered what it was, because something smelled good.

Tiptoeing lightly down the hallway, I gently opened the door to the kitchen where the catering staff were all bustling around with masks and aprons on.

Then my eyes caught the fingers deftly cutting through the bloody raw steak, the sharp, rough motions sending blood spurting over his strong pale fingers.

No

I froze, but he heard even the little rustling noise I made, my hands clutching the door frame as his eyes dragged up my body to meet my horrified gaze.

The rest of his face was hidden behind the mask, but what I saw in his eyes chilled me to the bone.

I screamed, so loud the sound rang in my own ears, forcing my limbs to move as I scampered down the hall.

“What’s wrong?”

I lost my head and ran outside, when I should have gone to my room and locked the door.

It was dark, the chill night air whirling around my thin leggings, and I headed into Reuben’s garden.

“Lavender!” a hard, insistent voice growled, and I was dragged back against the hedge so hard and fast it knocked the breath out of me.

“I can find you,” Michael hissed in my ear as other hands gripped him, dragged him away. “No matter where you go.”

“I’m so sorry,” Reuben said, rushing up to put strong arms around me.

I closed my eyes tightly. There was a massive struggle and scuffling sound in the background as the other workers forced Michael off the property.

“What can I do?” Reuben asked. “Do you want me to call the police? I—it was very difficult to get him off you.”

His eyes looked troubled, scanning me anxiously, almost as if he wondered what about me had made Dr. Carrington go insane.

But I was too frightened to call the police. Too frightened of what else it might make Michael do.

And I was uneasy when I went back into the house.

What had he been doing here?

What was his end game?

I tiptoed carefully around the kitchen, almost afraid to touch the handle of the knife he’d been holding.

But nothing seemed amiss.

Until the next day, when Reuben collapsed into my door with a gray, ashen face.

And then I knew something was seriously wrong.

I raced for the home phone and dialed 911.

What had Michael done to him?

For I had no doubt it was my husband’s doing.