The Next Widow: A gripping crime thriller with unputdownable suspense (Jericho and Wright Thrillers Book 1) Read online

  The rest of the night went quickly until, finally, she’d finished with her last patient and her charting, and had given her sign-out to the next attending. It was twenty past midnight by the time she was walking through the ER on her way to her car, when the clerk called her name, gesturing with a phone handset from his seat at the nurses’ station. He nodded to a bouquet of red roses wrapped in cellophane and green florist tissue paper lying on the counter. “These came for you.”

  “From Ian?” Ian never sent her flowers for Valentine’s.

  “Sorry, didn’t see. They were just left here, not sure when.”

  Leah ruffled through the roses until she found the card. The envelope had her name typed on the front. The card inside was also typed, reading:

  I left a surprise for you at home.

  No signature, but if Ian phoned the order into the hospital gift shop, there wouldn’t be. She inhaled the fragrant bouquet’s perfume. He must have heard her frustration when they’d talked earlier, ordered the flowers to make her smile.

  She headed out to the parking garage, suddenly exhausted, wanting only Ian’s arms wrapped around her. She spotted her Subaru Forester parked in her reserved spot, but instead of being backed in like she’d left it, it was now parked head in. It was also gleaming clean, no trace of winter road salt.

  Leah grinned. Ian had definitely been here. And gotten her exactly what she wanted. She climbed inside the SUV and set the roses on the passenger seat, where there was a receipt from the mechanic waiting for her. Oil changed, tires rotated, all the past-due maintenance performed, state inspection taken care of along with a wash. She leaned back and inhaled the almost-new car smell. Best Valentine’s present ever.

  Ian always knew how to make her smile. Her good mood lasted her entire drive from Good Sam to their townhouse in a converted Victorian on Jefferson Street. She pulled into their narrow driveway paved with ancient cobblestones that refused any attempt to be covered with modern materials. The sidewalk leading from the old carriage house that was now their garage was freshly shoveled and salted.

  Leah found herself humming as she carried the roses past the tiny garden mounded with remnants of the snow that had fallen over the past few days. Moonlight danced with clouds, giving the dormant plants a bluish glow as shadows tangled with the snow’s gleam.

  She climbed the steps to the back stoop, tapped her shoes to shed any road salt, and reached to put her key in the kitchen door. It was unlocked. More than unlocked—it was slightly ajar, as if someone had pushed it shut but not hard enough for the latch to catch. Maybe when Ian had taken out the trash?

  An unexpected shiver raced over her, a stray dagger of winter piercing her fleece jacket. She opened the door. The lights in the kitchen were off—also unusual. Ian always left a light for her. She flicked them on.

  That’s when she saw the blood.

  Two

  Leah scanned the tiny outdated kitchen. “Ian?”

  There was a single streak of blood on the countertop. One kitchen chair lay on the ground below their vintage steel and red vinyl-topped table. Flecks of blood glared red against the white of a stack of napkins fluttering in the wind from the still-open door. Beside the stove, the knife block was toppled on its side, knives gleaming under the glare of the fluorescent light, half-naked where they’d slid free from their safe haven. None were missing.

  Had Ian cut himself? But why put the knife back? Why not grab the first aid kit she kept in the drawer beside the sink? The thoughts rushed through Leah’s mind, pushing out other thoughts she could not—would not—allow herself to think. She took one step inside but kept the door open to the night chill, leaving her blanketed by the cold, barely able to feel her face or feet. Shouldn’t waste heat—the electric bill would be staggering. She should close the door… Why didn’t she?

  “Ian?” she called louder this time. Leah touched the door behind her, as if to close it, and froze there, one hand on the knob, the other holding the roses, adrenaline spiking, everything in her gut telling her to get out. She forced the primal emotions aside, focusing on what had happened here. Emily? Could she have been the one who’d gotten hurt? No. Ian would have called Leah or brought Em into the ER. So… where was he? Was Emily all right?

  Then she spotted more blood streaks marring the surface of the refrigerator, not quite forming a handprint that echoed Emily’s finger-painted Valentine’s Day artwork from school. Leah froze, listening to her home. It was drowning in silence. And yet there was an underlying disturbance, a faint vibration, a breath held too long before sighing. When Leah inhaled, the stench of something more primal than blood filled her nostrils. Fear. Beyond fear. Terror.

  Why not close the door, Leah? She’d only been inside her house for less than four seconds but was fighting the urge to flee. An escape. That was why she left the door open.

  “Ian!” His name scraped against her tight vocal cords, fighting for escape. No answer. She took another step into the kitchen even as she slid her phone from her pocket.

  She had to force herself to glance into the dining room. Empty. And dark. Not even a glimmer of light from the stairway. They never turned that light off at night—in case Emily had to get up to use the bathroom.

  Her hand trembled as she snapped on the dining room lights.

  Blood stained the walls, all the way up to the ceiling. The chandelier crystals reflected scarlet onto the cream-colored walls, danced blood-red light onto the tablecloth. One of the chairs was smashed, its legs splintered among the crystal bowl and candlesticks.

  Emily. She needed to get to Emily.

  “911, what’s your emergency?”

  Leah stared at the phone in her hand, not even remembering dialing. It was as if her brain was slashed in two: one part absorbing the details surrounding her, awareness blunted by shock and awe; the other half following well-trained instincts, taking control.

  “I think someone broke into my house,” she told the operator after first giving her address and name in case they were disconnected. “I got home and the back door was open. There’s blood in the kitchen and my husband isn’t answering. I can’t find him.” Her voice up-ticked, tight with fear. She forced a breath. Focus, Leah. “There are signs of a struggle.”

  “Ma’am.” The operator’s voice sliced through her panic. “Leave the house. Now. I have help on the way.”

  “I can’t.” Leah’s voice was a strangled whisper. Even as she spoke she stumbled toward the staircase leading to the second floor, leading to their bedroom… and Emily’s. She wanted to scream Emily’s name, but couldn’t force enough air past the noose that had tightened her throat. “My daughter. I need to find—”

  “No. Ma’am. Leah. Listen to me. You need to leave the house. Wait for the police. They’ll be there in just a few minutes.”

  Leah pounded up the stairs, not caring how much noise she made or whom she woke, praying only that she woke someone, that this was all a mistake, a dream, some kind of sick joke. A surprise waiting for you, the message on the roses said. She glanced down at the bouquet in her free hand. She dropped it, numbly watched the roses tumble down to the bottom landing, blood-red petals littering the steps.

  “Get out of the house, Leah,” the operator ordered.

  “I can’t.” It was as much a plea for help as a statement of fact.

  Leah gripped the phone to her ear as she reached the banister at the top of the stairs and used it to pivot around the landing into the hallway. All the doors were open. No lights except for the ghastly glow of her phone. The air stank of blood.

  She turned on the hall light. Her foot squished in something, pulling her gaze down. Dark blood, sticky, enough of it to form a small puddle. More blood in ribbons and dribbles on the hardwood of the hall floor that suddenly appeared warped, extending into an unnatural distance. Tunnel vision. Adrenaline-induced, along with the roaring that had hijacked her brain. Knowing the reason for her pounding chest and shaking hands didn’t help, though. She raised her g
aze. Smeared handprints, one so close she could see the old scar that formed a crescent moon across the base of Ian’s right thumb. She gagged, forcing herself not to scream.

  “Leah?” the operator asked. “Stay with me. Are you out of the house?”

  Leah barely registered the disembodied sounds coming from her phone. The plaster along the hallway was crushed in spots—too large to be fists, someone’s head? A few of the dents went all the way through the ancient wire lath plaster to its horsehair insulation. A sleepwalker in a trance, she followed the trail of destruction. Emily. She had to get to Emily.

  She felt as if she was in slow motion while also aware that she was moving too fast down the hall to properly assess any danger lurking behind her. Every cell in her body was screaming at her to go faster, faster. Was the intruder still here? Was he waiting for her in Emily’s room? Was he behind her, ready to pounce? Where was Ian? Emily… please, God… Emily.

  The blood trail led to Emily’s door at the far end of the hall. So much blood. The door was ajar, Emily’s Happy Hippo nightlight casting bright red and yellow dancing stars across the pink rug inside.

  “Leah,” the operator said. “They’re almost there. Where are you? I need to know where you are so I can tell the officers.”

  Leah didn’t answer, her attention focused on Emily’s bubblegum-pink rug and the darker red stains splashed against it. She pushed the door open wide, her hand on the knob catching some of the dancing stars, and gasped. Emily’s bed was piled high with her stuffed animals, the sheets in disarray. Empty. No Emily.

  But that wasn’t what made her stumble back, hitting the doorjamb. She blinked, as if the simple reflex could erase what she was staring at and reset reality.

  Ian sat on the floor, his back against Emily’s bed. He wore the silly Curious George PJs Emily had gotten him for Christmas, their bright yellow flannel slashed and stained with blood. His head rested against one shoulder, twisted to an unnatural angle, his face bruised and swollen into a grotesque mask. One palm pressed against his abdomen, his wedding band glistening in the gleam of the nightlight.

  Leah fell to her knees, crawling toward him. Pulse, did he have a pulse? But she knew before she even touched his flesh that it would be cold and lifeless.

  “Emily!” Her voice ricocheted from the walls, returning to her with a hollow thud that barely made it over the pounding of her pulse. She spun around, still on her knees. Other than Ian’s mutilated body, there was no sign of struggle, nothing out of place. Emily’s bookcase, her toy chest, dresser, all stood intact, mocking Leah.

  Then a small sound, the rustle of an animal hiding from prey, came from under the bed. Leah flattened her body, ignoring the blood she had to lie in, and aimed her cell phone into the darkness. Emily had curled herself into a ball, the smallest target possible, backed into the far corner. Out of Leah’s reach.

  “I’m here,” Leah whispered. “Emily, look at me. It’s okay.”

  Emily had her eyes squeezed shut, her hands tightened in fists pressed against her mouth. She didn’t move.

  “Emily,” Leah tried again. “It’s Mommy.” In the distance, Leah heard sirens. She ignored them. Right now, her daughter needed her, and she was too far away.

  She did the only thing any mother would do. She crawled through her dead husband’s blood to get to her daughter.

  The space beneath Emily’s bed was so crowded Leah could barely move. It didn’t help that she was hyperventilating, her chest ratcheted tight, each breath a ticking bomb threatening to explode.

  Emily didn’t reach for her, didn’t respond when Leah grabbed her ankle. Leah tried again, stretching farther until she could touch one of Emily’s elbows. Emily kept her eyes shut, her hands pressed tight against her face, her entire body heaving with silent, swallowed, half-birthed sobs.

  “I’m here, baby,” Leah crooned. The stench of blood contaminated what little air there was in the tiny space. She fought to control her breathing, to forget the body that lay beside them, to focus on her daughter. “Did he hurt you? The bad man?” God, if he did, if the animal who did that to Ian touched one hair on her baby girl’s head—fury cauterized her fear. She belly-crawled a few inches closer to Emily, shoving shoe boxes and discarded toys and books and sneakers aside.

  Using her cell, Leah examined what little she could of Emily’s balled-up body. No blood. No obvious injuries. Finally, she’d edged far enough beneath the bed that she was able to wrap her arms around Emily. Leah was cramped and contorted, her head pushing against a bed slat, one shoulder nudging the mattress, and both legs sprawled behind her.

  “Leah.” The 911 operator hadn’t given up on her. “The officers are there. They’ll be coming in the rear of the house. Stay where you are. Make sure your hands are empty and keep them where they can see them. Set the phone down, it’s okay, I’ll still be here until I know you’re with them.”

  A wave of hysterical laughter burbled up, but Leah choked it back. “I can’t show them my hands,” she told the anonymous operator. “I’m under my daughter’s bed. She’s here, too. I’m not leaving her.”

  “Which room?” The sound of computer keys drifted past the woman’s voice.

  “End of the hall. Where Ian—” Leah gulped, lowered her voice. Emily knew about Ian—more than Leah did—but Leah couldn’t say the words, risk them penetrating Emily’s protective cocoon of denial. “Where my husband is. He’s on the floor.”

  “They’re securing the house. You will probably hear them checking all the rooms. You’re safe now, Leah. You can come out. You and your daughter. Just show them your hands, leave the phone.”

  Leah could barely hear the operator over the sounds of two men shouting downstairs and banging through the first floor. The noises did not make her feel safe—in fact, they were terrifying. Probably the point if she was a thief cowering, desperately hiding. “I’m not leaving Emily.”

  “Okay, hang on. Let me tell them where you are. Is your daughter injured?”

  “She’s in shock. But I can’t find any external injuries.”

  Footsteps thundered up the stairs followed by the thud of doors being thrown open. Finally, the light clicked on inside Emily’s room. A man made a guttural sound and swore, stepping inside only far enough to swing the door and look behind it, and then to check Emily’s closet.

  Leah gasped at what the light revealed. Thankfully Emily still had her eyes squeezed tight.

  Ian’s back was shredded with deep gouges that exposed muscle and cut down to the bone. How the hell had he found the strength to keep fighting? For Emily. Of course. Leah blinked back tears and gripped her daughter tighter.

  “Ma’am.” One pair of black military boots shuffled beyond the end of the bed, away from Ian. “There’s no sign of the intruder. You can come out now.”

  Leah’s body was twisted so tight she couldn’t feel her legs and her muscles had locked into position, hanging onto Emily. “I can’t leave my daughter. She’s in shock, won’t even open her eyes.”

  “Might not be a bad thing,” he muttered as he stepped back, skirting a pool of blood. There was a hushed conversation; Leah could only hear bits and pieces. “Can’t leave them—”

  “Crime scene unit… Evidence—”

  “Can’t move the DB. CSU would have our hides and the detectives will chew up what’s left.”

  “Wait for the sarge? It’ll just be a few minutes.”

  Two pairs of boots approached. “Er, ma’am? We need to preserve the crime scene—”

  “He means we can’t drag you out, not past—”

  “I know what he means,” Leah snapped. She hunched her shoulder up, jostling the bed slat above her. “Can you lift the mattress? Tilt it enough so I can push the slats away and carry Emily out?”

  A pause as they considered the logistics. “Yeah, that might work. You okay to wait a sec while we document the scene?”

  “I still think we should wait for backup,” the second man said.

  Emily’s
trembling had grown worse. She felt cold, clammy with sweat. “As soon as you can,” Leah called out. “Do you have a sterile sheet you could cover…” She trailed off, unable to complete the thought. In no universe imaginable were the words “Ian’s body” part of Leah’s vocabulary. No. Not. Possible.

  His blood was soaking through her scrubs, she couldn’t erase the image of his head resting so unnaturally against his shoulder, yet somehow part of Leah’s brain refused to believe what every one of her senses screamed was real. Ian was dead. Beaten. Brutalized. Butchered.

  Those were the facts of her new existence, the laws of physics that would now forever govern her universe.

  Ian. Dead.

  Still, her mind rebelled. This could not be happening. Not to him, not to them. Why would anyone want to hurt Ian? Why?

  A rhythmic wet noise filled the tiny space. Emily. Rocking her body harder, banging her head against the bed frame as she sucked her thumb. Emily had never sucked her thumb, not even as an infant. “Baby, stop. Please. I’m here, Mommy’s here.”

  She grasped Emily tighter, trying to pull her closer, ease her from the corner and the bed frame with its metal screws. Emily made a grunting sound like an animal and resisted, yanking away and huddling in the corner, squeezing herself into an even tighter ball. Leah somehow contorted her body to follow. Anything to not lose her tenuous connection with Emily. She squirmed farther under the bed until finally she was able to wrap her body around as much of Emily’s as she could reach. She rocked in time with Emily, their heads moving in unison, their cheeks both wet with tears.

  “It’s okay, baby. Everything’s going to be okay,” Leah crooned.

  It was the first time she’d ever lied to her daughter.

  It wouldn’t be the last.

  Three

  Detective Sergeant Luka Jericho purposefully parked his departmental Taurus at the bottom of Jefferson Street, well beyond the flashing lights of the other vehicles gathered at the scene. Despite the cold and the late hour there was a crowd of onlookers huddled in pajamas and parkas, gaping at the perfectly ordinary house halfway up a street of perfectly ordinary homes in one of Cambria City’s perfectly ordinary neighborhoods.