Lisa Jackson - Most Likely To Die

“You can’t be serious,” Lissa whined. “I don’t want to go anywhere. And I’m hungry.”

“You’re outvoted.” Kristen was already down the hallway and in her bedroom. “Eat a slice of pizza before we go.” She hated to leave, but they couldn’t stay. Couldn’t. Who knew what the psycho who’d been in their house might do.

“Dad, this is ridiculous,” Lissa was stomping her way to her bedroom while Ross found Marmalade and placed the hissing, unhappy feline in her carrying cage.

Ten minutes later, they were out the door: Lissa, Ross, and the pizza in his pickup; Kristen and a yowling Marmalade in the Honda. “Looks like I pulled the short straw,” Kristen told the cat, who only howled more loudly.

Ross backed down the street and waited as Kristen pulled out. Then he followed her down the hill.

No one noticed the figure hidden in the shadows across the street. No one knew that they’d barely escaped with their lives.

The killer watched the vehicles drive away. She was wearing a bulky sweatshirt, and in the wide front pocket she fingered the butcher knife she’d stolen earlier.

Fury rose inside her like bubbling lava. She’d planned to wait another night before she struck, to savor the moments of anticipation another twenty-four hours, but her excitement had gotten the better of her and she’d decided she couldn’t stand it one more minute. It had been too long already; much too long.

She’d hoped to catch the bitch at home alone, but the damned husband and kid had shown up. Hadn’t she known they’d be a problem?

And now, it was too late! They were leaving!

No doubt Kristen had realized that someone had been in her house, had used a key…

Her fist clenched around the hilt of the butcher knife. She’d wanted Kristen first. And she’d envisioned slicing Kristen Daniels’s throat just at the moment the bitch recognized her killer.

She knew how it would go down:

Kristen would be in the house, probably at her desk, maybe yakking on the phone. The killer would wait until the conversation was over, the phone hung up, Kristen still lost in thought.

Then she would spring! Attack! Call out Kristen’s name, witness the whore turn! There would be a look of bewilderment as she realized who was in her home, then a second when she’d relax and call out the killer’s name in mild confusion.

“What are you doing here?” she would ask…then she would notice the knife. Her own kitchen knife. Panic would set in. Her eyes would round and she’d start to scream or run. But it would be too late.

The killer would plunge the knife straight into the bitch’s useless heart.

Oh God.

She was shaking.

Standing in the darkness, she felt a thrill like no other. She was furious that her mission had gone awry. Shaking with repressed need.

Get a grip.

Don’t lose it.

Not now…not after you’ve waited so damned long.

Slowly, without speaking, she counted to ten. Slowly she calmed her raging heartbeat. Slowly she got herself under control.

Maybe this would work out to her advantage.

Maybe she could save the best for last.

There were others. She’d thought about taking the others first, one by one, of course. That had been her original plan, but after being in Kristen’s house, finding the slut’s diary and all her ridiculous pictures of Jake Marcott, the killer had changed her mind. Her bloodlust had been so overpowering that she’d made a dangerous misstep.

One that she could correct.

Tonight.

Stay the course. Don’t veer off track. There’s another who needs to die.

Letting out a breath in the cold night air, the killer realized that sometime during her reverie it had begun to rain. A thin, fine mist caressed her skin and caused ringlets to form around her face. She tilted up her head, letting the filmy drops touch her eyes, her cheeks, her throat.

Calmer now, she fingered the cold blade once more.

Get it together. There is still time.

You know what you have to do.

You know who is next.

She licked her lips. Envisioned another victim. This one with surly blue eyes, full lips, and a face framed by long blond hair.

Go now.

She’s waiting.

They talked to the police. For several hours. In Ross’s condominium. With the panoramic view of the city lights reflecting off the Willamette River, Ross, Lissa, and Kristen all gave statements about the events of the evening, but the cops were skeptical. The only crimes were a supposed break-in and the stealing of a butcher knife and box of ancient schoolgirl memorabilia. The two cops took down the information and agreed that the special invitations were weird, someone’s sick idea of a joke. Same with the tape and letter left in Kristen’s car.

Before they left they promised to have someone go over to the house in the daylight and take a look around. They advised Kristen to get an alarm system and a big dog. Forget the wimpy-looking orange cat. Clearly, though they were doing their duty, they felt the perpetrator’s actions were more pranklike than a serious threat.

But Kristen was beginning to put more stock in Haylie’s theories and hadn’t forgotten that someone had killed Jake Marcott, someone who had escaped justice.

Kristen checked the time. It was late. She wanted to call Lindsay and Rachel but decided to wait to learn if they, too, had received tampered-with invitations. If they had, then Haylie’s twisted hypothesis might be proven true.

Kristen walked down the short hallway to the second bedroom, where Lissa was asleep on the daybed, the television still flickering blue, the sound hushed. How peaceful their daughter appeared, Kristen thought as she leaned a shoulder on the doorjamb. As if Lissa didn’t have a care in the world. Kristen couldn’t help but wonder how much of her daughter’s teenage rebellion was the normal part of being a kid stretching her wings and how much was because of the deterioration of her parents’ marriage.

Guilt dug at her heart, but she pushed it aside. The past was over. It was time to move on.

She didn’t hear Ross approach but felt his arm slip around her waist. Pressing warm lips to her ear, he said, “She’s fine. I think it’s time you and I called it a day.”

She felt a secret stirring in her blood as he pulled the door shut, took her hand, and led her farther down the hall to the master suite. A king-sized bed took up one wall and faced the windows. He closed the door, then pulled her through the spacious room to the master bath, where an oversized tub was filling with hot water. Steam rose toward the ceiling, fogging windows that also faced the city lights.

He’d lit half a dozen fragrant candles, and the tiny flames were the only illumination in the room.

She eyed the rapidly filling tub and clucked her tongue. “Looks like you’re trying to seduce me.”

“Nuh-uh.” He let go of her hand to place both of his on her waist. “You got that backward, lady.”

“Oh.” She laughed. “I’m seducing you?”

He smiled and his eyes glinted devilishly. “How about a fresh start? You and me.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing.”

“No, we agreed to try. Let’s forget the trying part and just do it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m asking you to marry me. Right now. Right here. I want a commitment, Kris, not just a maybe. And don’t tell me that we’re still married. I know.” His deep gaze caught hers. “You know what I mean.”

She thought about it a second and looked at his earnest face, his intense gray eyes, the dark hair that was forever falling over his forehead, the face of the man she loved.

Ross said softly, “No more accusations, no more putting work before time together, no more Jake Marcott.”