Paula Graves: Forbidden Temptation

She jabbed at the power lock. The levers snicked softly as they slid into place, closing her safely inside.

In the silence, her breathing was harsh and rapid. She forced herself to let her heart rate settle into a less frantic cadence before she put the key in the ignition.

She hadn’t been imagining it, had she? She’d seen movement in the shadows, felt his gaze like a touch. She wasn’t crazy.

He’d been watching Alice. Waiting for his opportunity. Maybe he would have made his move right there in the parking lot, if Rose hadn’t showed up.

Maybe she’d already saved Alice Donovan’s life.

But now the killer had seen her.

Rose grabbed the rearview mirror, positioning it to see her own reflection. Her eyes, dark with fear, stared back at her, but her face was clear. No death veil.

She slumped against the car seat, relief tingling through her, quickly swamped by guilt. So what if she was safe? Alice Donovan was still in danger, and Rose’s clumsy attempt to warn her had failed. If her warning had changed Alice’s fate, wouldn’t the death veil have disappeared?

She lowered her forehead to the steering wheel, feeling sick. The truth was, she didn’t know if the death veil would have disappeared. She knew nothing about the damned things, except that they had made her life a constant misery for the past ten months.

She gave herself a shake. Maybe she was giving up too soon. The other victims hadn’t died immediately. A day or two had passed before their bodies were found. Alice had said she was going straight home; maybe the killer wouldn’t strike tonight.

She still had Alice’s business card and the phone number to her florist shop. She could call Alice in the morning, apologize for scaring her and try to explain things more coherently.

Maybe it would work.

She forced her rubbery limbs into motion, buckling her seat belt and starting the car. The dashboard clock showed ten twenty-five. The night was still young, by Friday-night-clubbing standards, but she’d seen all the death veils she could bear in one evening.

She pulled carefully into traffic and circled the block, coming to stop at the traffic light in front of the Storyteller fountain. Spotlights in the center of the fountain lit up the whimsical bronze sculpture of a ram dressed as a man reading to an assembly of smaller bronze animals. A young couple sat on a bench nearby, holding hands and gazing at each other, oblivious to the beauty of the fountain.

A few months ago Rose could have known at a glance whether or not the couple was destined to love each other for a lifetime. Now all she could say, for sure, was that neither of them was destined to die in the next few days.

She looked up at the red light, willing it to change.

A cluster of pedestrians crossed in front of her, heading toward the fountain. A dark-haired man brought up the rear, his long trench coat flapping with each confident stride. A flutter of awareness sparked in Rose’s belly as she recognized him.

The stranger who’d been watching her at the Southside Pub.

He turned his face toward her as if he could sense her scrutiny. Rose shrank back into the shadows, knowing that the glare of the streetlamp off her windshield most likely hid her from his view. The light changed to green as he reached the sidewalk by the fountain, but Rose didn’t move. Adrenaline rushed into her bloodstream.

He’d come from the direction of the club she’d just left.

Behind her, a horn honked, rattling her nerves. She accelerated across the intersection, her heart rate picking up speed. She took a left at the next intersection, heading toward Mountain Avenue. Just a few blocks and she’d be home. Safe.

At least, for now.

MIDNIGHT HAD COME and gone, but Rose remained curled up in the overstuffed armchair by the front windows, gazing out at the moonless night. The lights of the city cast a yellow haze across the night sky, obscuring the stars from her view.

She closed her eyes and listened to the thud of her pulse in her ears, steady and just a little rapid, still pumped up with adrenaline from the evening’s events. Behind her eyelids, the sight of Alice Donovan’s scarred and bleeding face played in strobing slow motion, like a silent movie.

A scratching sound at the front door jerked her eyes open. Staring at the solid door, she held her breath, wondering if she’d imagined it.

Then she heard it again. It was faint but unmistakable, a discordant sound, as if someone were scraping fingernails down the outside of the door.

Releasing a shaky breath, Rose crept to the door and peered through the fish-eye lens. She could see nothing outside.

Checking to make sure the safety chain was engaged, she unlocked the dead bolt and cracked the door open.

Alice Donovan’s wide, sightless green eyes stared up at Rose from the welcome mat. Blood from the gashes in her face flowed onto the concrete stoop, the crimson turned black in the muddy yellow light from the streetlamps.

Alice’s lips moved slowly, a soft rattle rising from her ruined throat. “Too…late-”

Rose jerked awake, her heart in her throat. It was still nighttime, the clock over the mantel reading 2:00 a.m. She sat in the armchair by the window, her back and legs aching from the cramped position.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, beating out a guilty cadence.

Too late.

Too late.

Too late.

Rose called the flower shop as early as she dared the next morning. As soon as someone answered the phone, she forced the reluctant words from her mouth. “Is Alice Donovan there?”

“She’s not in yet.”

“When do you expect her in?”

A thick pause greeted the question. When the woman finally spoke, the anxiety in her voice was palpable. “An hour ago.”

Rose’s nightmare flashed through her mind, chilling her to the bone. Her voice cracked. “Have you tried her home number?”

“She’s not answering her home phone or her cell.” The woman’s voice shook. “She’s never late like this.”

Rose tried to keep her voice even. “I met her last night. I said I’d give her a call-I’m a wedding planner and I can always use a new flower source.”

“Was she okay when you saw her?”

Rose closed her eyes. “She was fine, heading home the last I talked to her. Does she live nearby?”

“On Doberville-the Brookstone Apartments.”

Rose gave a start. A block away, easy walking distance.

“I’d go check on her,” the woman continued, “but I’m the only one in the shop…”

“I’ll check, if you’d like. I live nearby. What apartment?”

The woman hesitated, as if realizing she’d already given out a lot of personal information to a stranger. “Maybe I should call the police.”

“Definitely do that. But they won’t do anything yet-she’s an adult and she’s been missing only an hour. I know you don’t want to give out that kind of information to a stranger on the phone. My name is Rose Browning. Like I said, I have a wedding planning company. You can look me up in the Yellow Pages or on the Internet. I just want to help, and I live so close…”

“Apartment 2-D,” the woman said softly.

“I’ll go right now.” Rose hung up and started dressing, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t too late.

That Alice wasn’t already dead.

THE MORNING CHILL curled around the collar of Daniel’s suit jacket, making him wish he’d worn an overcoat. Ahead, yellow crime tape cordoned off a large square where the crime-scene unit gathered evidence while detectives watched from the sides.

Daniel steered clear of the tape, blending into the crowd of locals watching from across the street. He edged toward the local television reporters setting up for live shots nearby.