Page 6 of Paranoid

Another swallow of wine to dispel any hint of dissatisfaction as she settled into the pillows of her bed, the best you could buy with a “breathable” but firm mattress and a contraption to make the head or foot rise with the mere push of a button.

One of the perks of being married to Leonard Sperry, furniture salesman extraordinaire.

Shit.

She glanced at her phone, where the message from Lila was on display. Squinting, she read again: Don’t forget. Meeting for the reunion. My house. Tomorrow @ 7:30. Go Eagles!

As if.

No way was Violet attending the stupid twenty-year reunion, let alone joining the planning committee. And to talk about the high school team? Twenty years after graduation? Ugh! She took a long swallow from her glass, then deleted the message. She’d never liked Lila back then, when she was a classmate, and she liked her even less now as some kind of Edgewater social climber and community leader. As if being married to an old man of an attorney and running around doing good deeds for this tiny nothing community were important. Besides, the man she married was old as dirt, and the father of a fellow classmate. “How sick is that?” she said into her glass.

And now Lila wanted her to be a part of the reunion meeting. Which was only part of her irritation. That stupid Mercedes Jennings . . . no, her name had changed . . . She was married to Tom Pope now. Well, anyway, that stupid Mercedes Pope was a damned reporter and wanted to interview her about Luke Hollander’s death.

After twenty years. Some kind of retro piece for the local paper.

No way.

Make that no friggin’ way.

High school and all the drama, tears, and tragedy were long over, thank God, and now she was married to Leonard and had three beautiful, wonderful fur babies and . . . She glanced out the window at the dark night. God, how had her life turned into such a mess?

Honey had padded across the room and was whining at the bedside.

“Oh, you,” Violet said, her mood lifting at the sight of her happy dog. “Can’t sleep? Well, get on up here.” She patted the duvet and Honey didn’t hesitate, just hopped up quickly as if expecting Violet to change her mind. Not likely. Leonard was the one who drew the line at pets in the bed. “There you go.” She petted the dog’s coppery coat.

As Honey settled against her on the thick pillows, her small body curled against Violet, she clicked through the channels to catch a late show. Much as she hated to admit it, she didn’t sleep well when Leonard was out of town. It was stupid really, that she felt safer with him snoring beside her. Yeah, he was thirty pounds overweight and his once-lush hair had thinned to the point that he clipped what remained close to his skull. He disapproved of her affinity for wine—like, really disapproved—but Len put up with her quirks. When she told him she wasn’t interested in having children, he’d gone along with it.

Hence the dogs. Her babies. Three purebred Cavali

er King Charles spaniels. Honey on the bed with her and the other two curled up in matching beds near the armoire in the corner. She tried to set her glass on the bedside table and it slipped, sloshing wine onto the bed and into the partially open drawer in her nightstand.

“No!” She freaked for a second, then decided she’d deal with the mess in the morning. It was only a couple of spots on the duvet; she’d flip it over. She’d clean up the splash in the drawer when she got up tomorrow before her husband returned. Leonard would never suspect.

She was a bit buzzy, well, make that more than a bit, but what did it matter since Leonard was out of town until tomorrow? And her bones seemed to be melting in such a lovely fashion. Closing her eyes, she was barely aware that the late show host’s monologue was over and he was interviewing his first guest, an actress with a new movie out and . . .

Honey shifted, a low growl coming from her throat.

“Shhh,” Violet rasped thickly. She was drifting off.

A sharp bark.

Violet opened an eye and glanced to the beds where her other two dogs had been sleeping. Without her glasses she had to squint. The male, black and tan coat gleaming, was staring at the door. “Che, enough!” Geez, what was wrong with him? But he wasn’t alone. From her bed, the third dog, Trix, a usually shy tricolor, was snarling, her gaze fixed on the entrance to the bedroom.

For a second, Violet felt a frisson of worry slide through her insides. What if Leonard had come back early? Crap! How could she hide her glass and the bottle and the . . . ?

Wait a sec! If Leonard was returning, the dogs wouldn’t be growling.. . . No, more likely they would be yipping excitedly, ready to leap up and greet him. And she hadn’t heard the rumble of the garage door as it rolled open.

She glanced at the clock. The glowing letters were a little blurry, but she could still make out the time.

12:47.

No, her husband wouldn’t show up this late without calling. She fumbled on the bed table for her phone and glanced at the messages. Nothing from Leonard.

Clunk.

Her heart froze.

Had she heard something?