Jill Nelson - Witness to Murder

“You are trying hard to butter me up.” Hallie laughed.

“Not at all. I recognize a woman with a destiny when I see her.”

A tiny smile curved her mouth, and Brody’s pulse did a little cha-cha.

“Get out of here, Jordan. I’ve got work to do.” She turned away, and he left, chuckling.

A scream halted him midstride. He whirled and raced back to her carrel. Hallie stood in the aisle between work stations, hands to her chest, wide stare fixed toward the floor. He followed the direction of her gaze and spotted the manila envelope on the carpet. Next to the packet lay a braided gold rope.

Hallie pointed a trembling finger toward the dropped items. “Somebody sent me the cord that strangled Alicia. And this, too.” She thrust a piece of plain white paper at him.

Plain block letters in bold black marker said YOU COULD BE NEXT.

writes what she likes to read—faith-based tales of adventure seasoned with romance. By day she operates as housing manager for a seniors’ apartment complex. By night she turns into a wild and crazy writer who can hardly wait to jot down all the exciting things her characters are telling her, so she can share them with her readers. More about Jill and her books can be found at www.jillelizabethnelson.com. She and her husband live in rural Minnesota, surrounded by the woods and prairie and their four grown children who have settled nearby.

And you will know the truth,

and the truth will set you free.

—John 8:32

To those whose lives have been stunted by fear. (Isn’t

that all of us at times?) May the truth spoken in

love—to ourselves, to others—make us free to live in

the joy and peace God intends for His children.

Chapter ONE

Chapter TWO

Chapter THREE

Chapter FOUR

Chapter FIVE

Chapter SIX

Chapter SEVEN

Chapter EIGHT

Chapter NINE

Chapter TEN

Chapter ELEVEN

Chapter TWELVE

Chapter THIRTEEN

Chapter FOURTEEN

Chapter FIFTEEN

Chapter SIXTEEN

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Chapter NINETEEN

Chapter TWENTY

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Channel Six television news reporter Hallie Berglund put her right foot on the bottom step of the swaybacked porch, then stopped cold. The hairs on her arms prickled. What was that awful noise coming from inside the house? Some kind of music? This century-old Victorian was rented by four University of Minnesota coeds, but even if they liked punk rock they wouldn’t listen to this. And why was the front door several inches ajar?

Careful to keep the heels of her pumps from clacking against the wood, she walked carefully up the remaining two steps, but angry creaks from the porch boards announced her arrival. Whoever—whatever—was inside gave no indication her approach had been heard. The noise progressed in decibels.

Hallie frowned. There had to be a logical explanation. On the telephone, Alicia Drayton had sounded eager, almost desperate, to do the interview as soon as possible. The part-time fashion model and full-time student had said her roommates would be out all afternoon—a perfect opportunity for the two of them to talk privately.

The sound continued—long, drawn out. Like something a person would hear on a dark and moonless night, not in the balmy afternoon of a cloudless June day. She doused the impulse to back away and wait for her cameraman to catch up with her. She was a reporter, and she needed to find out what was going on. Sooner rather than later.

Her rap on the warped door panel widened the opening, revealing a foyer done in dark wood and last decade’s wallpaper. She stepped inside onto a scatter rug and was greeted by lingering scents of mingled women’s perfumes. To her left a set of stairs led upward. Ahead and to her right lay an opening framed in old-fashioned wide wood.

“Alicia?” Hallie’s voice sounded hollow in the open space.

The noise stopped, and silence fell like a skipped heartbeat. Then a loud sniffle announced a fresh round of wails, this time in words spoken in a masculine tenor. “No, no, no. This isn’t real. Allie, baby, wake uuuuuup!”

Hallie’s breath caught. Was Alicia hurt? Hallie hurried forward, heels tapping the faded floorboards. She stepped through the opening, and a squawk escaped her throat.

What whirlwind had trashed this living room? The couch was tipped onto its back, an easy chair lay on its side, and the entertainment center had fallen face down, scattering shattered electronic equipment. And who lay sprawled on the floor near the heavily curtained picture window? The head and torso were concealed from view by a lean man with spiked blond hair who crouched over the inert body. His bare, muscular shoulders quaked beneath a sweat-streaked tank top the same shade of tan as his running shorts.

“Who? Wh-what?” The words stuttered between Hallie’s lips. “Should we call 9-1-1?”

The man eased to his feet, all six feet six inches of him. He swiveled toward her like a man in a trance, slate-blue eyes staring blankly. Wetness glistened on drawn cheeks in a face all sharp planes and angles. In his fist he clutched a braided gold cord. “She’s…dead.”

Hallie’s gaze fell to the head and shoulders on the floor behind the man’s feet. She gulped. Whoever had trashed this room had also done a number on the woman’s face…and her neck. Raw cord marks dug into her pale throat.

Alicia? The glossy auburn hair splayed around her head matched the publicity photos that had been sent over to the station, but the facial features were too puffy to be identified. The giveaway was the man with what appeared to be the murder weapon in his hand—Alicia’s boyfriend, Minnesota Golden Gophers’ bad boy, Damon Lange. The college basketball player’s famous temper had finally turned him into a killer.

Hallie’s gaze locked with his. Ice encased her muscles, and her heart slammed against her rib cage. A change melted over Lange’s face. Pinched sorrow fell away, relaxed into openmouthed awareness, and then red-faced fear—and fury. Lange raised the fist that held the cord and charged toward Hallie.

She shrieked and whirled away, racing toward the open door. The scatter rug on the floor slid beneath her heels. Hallie’s cameraman, Stan Fisher, stepped into the house, exclaiming, as Lange’s body struck Hallie from behind. She careened into the cameraman, and the two of them went down in a heap at the foot of the stairs. Hallie’s knees hit the floor—hard—and her suit pants did little to protect them. Pain speared up her legs. Damon disappeared out the door. His boat-sized feet struck a hollow tattoo on the porch.

Gasping for air, Hallie rolled away from Stan, who lay on his back spluttering and clutching his precious camera to his bony chest. Heedless of her aching knees, she scrambled on all fours toward the doorway and gripped the doorpost. Out on the sun-soaked street, Damon charged into the street, arms pumping, the braided cord no longer in hand. A green-and-blue Papa Morelli’s Pizza delivery car whizzed up the road, and the ball player dodged barely in time to avoid being hit. Then he raced onward and out of view between the houses.

“What was that all about?” Stan’s footfalls came up behind her.