Killing Me Softly by MAGGIE SHAYNE Page B

hoping to get this over with before anyone caught her there.
    The place reeked of old beer and stale junk food. It was all she could do not to start cleaning up as she moved through the living room, trying to step lightly and not disturb anything. She hated the idea that she might contaminate evidence, but she was fairly certain the forensics team had already gone over the place thoroughly. Hell, there was fingerprint dust everywhere, which made damn little sense to her. There’d been a party. There would be dozens of sets of prints on everything in the place.
    Underneath the mess, she thought, Bryan’s place was nice. Spartan, but nice. His sofa was deep-brown rich leather, and there was a recliner that matched except for being just a shade lighter. His throw pillows were green, sage like the carpet. She would have added other colors to break it up, but it was all right as it was. For a guy. He had hardwood bookshelves lined with law-enforcement texts and true-crime stories, and memoirs written by, for and about cops.
    Hmm.
    She moved closer, scanning the shelves but not touching. Yes, there it was. Nightcap, by Nick Di Marco. Biting her lip, Dawn pulled out the book, touching nothing else, and tucked it into the back of her jeans. She’d heard enough accolades about Bryan’s mentor that she’d fully intended to read his story, or at least see the movie, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Having met him, she was even more curious. She liked Nick Di Marco. Besides, if this killer was copying the Nightcap Strangler, she’d better educate herself on the old case as much as possible.
    A small smile pulled at her lips, though most of her was feeling pretty dire. Still, she had to admit, it was exciting, playing amateur detective again.
    She would have tucked the book into her purse, only she’d left it in the car. And that made her ask herself if she’d remembered to lock it.
    Hell, she wasn’t sure.
    Sighing, she moved through the living room, glimpsing the kitchen off to the right. It was white. Way too white. But she didn’t explore it further. Instead, she headed for the hallway to the left, which had to lead to the bedrooms. But she paused at an end table, noticing a framed photo there. A familiar one. It was the same one she kept on her nightstand. A shot of the two of them, her and Bryan, more than five years ago, when they’d been madly in puppy love, arm in arm, smilinginto each other’s eyes. A candid moment Beth had captured without telling them. She’d sent an eight-by-ten to Dawn six months after she’d left. And apparently she’d given a copy to Bryan, as well. Hell, it was even in the same antique-looking pewter frame.
    Sighing, she moved past it, down the hall, but when she stepped into the bedroom doorway, she stopped cold, too terrified to move any farther. The feeling of death was stronger here. It was heavy in the air, and dense and sort of cold, but not in a physical way. She didn’t think she could describe that feeling if she had to, but she knew it when she felt it. And she felt it here.
    If Death were really a being, the way people imagined he was, then he definitely left an aura behind when he came to call. She wondered briefly if he were more a comforting angel or a frightening reaper. And then she wondered if the whole sense of him was only in her imagination.
    Her gaze moved to the stripped bed and froze there, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. She tried to swallow past it, failed and tried again. Sweat trickled between her brows. She never sweated. Her hands were trembling, palms damp. And she knew it was fear of what was about to happen. Fear of facing the ghost of a recently murdered woman. Fear that her father would show up alongside the unfortunate Bette, and that once she opened this door, she would never be able to force it closed again.
    â€œJust get it over with, Dawn,” she ordered herself in a harsh whisper.