Page 108 of M for Murder

Drawing a deep breath, Rebecca peered around the kitchen door into the hallway. Whatever the explanation was, she knew there was only one way to find out. With the knife clasped tightly in her hand she began to explore the downstairs rooms of the house. Everything seemed incredibly still and, with the exception of the perpetual ticking that came from the large oak grandfather clock that stood in the hallway, eerily silent. Constantly reassuring herself that there was probably nothing foreboding in the house, while fighting to control her growing sense of unease, she stepped into the dark shadows of the living room.

Heavy green velvet curtains were draped across one wall, concealing the window and blocking out any light that might have come from the moon.

Rebecca peered into the darkness briefly, taking in the furniture, wondering if perhaps she should venture further into the room and check behind the two dark leather couches.

Jeez! What do you expect to find? A dead body?

She had just taken a tentative step forward, when the grandfather clock chimed loudly. Jumping, she stifled a scream as the knife slipped from her shaking hand.

Christ, Rebecca! Get it together.

She remained standing for a moment in the shadows of the living room doorway, trying to keep her breathing quiet and wishing that her heartbeat would slow down. There was no one downstairs and, so far, she had found nothing to suggest that there was anyone else in the house. She thought about the missing knife and about the scream she had heard. They probably both had perfectly good explanations. Maybe she should just go out to her Jeep and call Hickok.

What about upstairs though? You haven’t checked upstairs yet.

She stooped down to retrieve her own knife then cautiously she stepped out into the hall. As she tiptoed towards the front door, half expecting someone to jump out from behind the grandfather clock and grab her, she thought again about the scream she had heard.

Shit, Rebecca. Who are you trying to kid? The scream came from inside this house and you know it.

Tentatively, she glanced over her shoulder at the staircase. The landing at the top was a mass of black shadows and seemed almost too quiet. Only a fool would venture up there alone. She knew that the wise thing to do would be to go out to her Jeep and call for backup.

What if there isn’t time to wait for backup?

Summoning up all of her courage, and cursing at herself under her breath, Rebecca began to climb the staircase, using her free hand to steady herself on the banister. If anything happened to her now, it would be her own fault.

She imagined her obituary. The stories in the press. Rookie cop killed exploring house. Foolish decision loses cop her life.

She wondered what she would find upstairs.

Would Kylan be lying dead in one of the bedrooms?

The landing at the top of the stairs was long and wide with a high-beamed ceiling. The cream-carpeted floor led off in both directions and the first door on the opposite wall was ajar.

The curtains were drawn shut, but the light was on and Rebecca could see the motionless figure sitting at the foot of the bed.

She caught her breath sharply.

Oh my God!

Cautiously, she pushed the door open and stepped into the room, her eyes taking in the scene before her.

Lawrence Parker sat with his knees bent, head falling back against the floral duvet. His black eyes were wide and staring up at the ceiling and both his hands clutched at the knife buried deep in his chest.

On the floor in the corner of the room sat Kylan. Her pale face was covered with blood and she was hugging her knees to her chest as she shook uncontrollably.

Rebecca stared at her for a moment, too shocked to speak. Finally, Kylan looked up at her through a sheen of tears.

‘I killed him,’ she murmured, her voice trembling. ‘Oh my God! I killed Lawrie.’

Rebecca stared at Parker, and then back at Kylan. ‘Did he hurt you?’ she asked, finally finding her voice.

Kylan nodded numbly. ‘I killed him,’ she repeated, this time her voice even quieter, almost a whisper.

Rebecca set down her knife and eased herself down onto the floor, wrapping her arms around the girl. ‘It’s okay, Kylan,’ she soothed. ‘He tried to hurt you. You had to protect yourself.’ She glanced at Parker’s body. ‘It’s okay now. It’s all over.’

She thought about Hickok. He had been right all along, suspecting Lawrence Parker from that very first meeting. She should call him. Tell him that Parker was dead.

Sick bastard. Trying to kill his own wife.