Dead By Morning

He flipped back the bloody sheet, took hold of Patterson’s ankles and dragged him off the bed and onto the floor. As his body hit the hard tile, it made a loud thud. He glanced up at the sleeping woman. She hadn’t moved. Good.

He pulled Patterson’s blood-splattered, lifeless body from the bedroom and into the bathroom. Then he turned on the tub faucets.

I never left them where I killed them. I moved the body, usually near a river or lake or stream. I even dragged a woman from her bedroom outside to her pool. There is something peaceful about water, don’t you think?

Near the bathtub overrunning with water would have to do. He saw no point in dragging the body outside to the pool and certainly not all the way to the beach. No need to risk being seen.

Chapter 8

Cyrene woke with the worst headache of her life. She came to slowly, painfully, her eyelids flicking. Moaning as she stretched her neck, she tried to focus on the mundane task of keeping her eyes open. When she parted her lips, she realized that her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth and her throat felt parched. She remembered drinking a glass of wine with Errol last night after they had made love and showered together. Surely, she hadn’t gotten drunk on a single glass. Had she drunk more than she thought she had?

“Errol . . .” She forced her eyes wide open, stared up at the unmoving ceiling fan and spread her arm across the bed, searching for her husband.

Dim early morning sunlight reflecting off the patio pool danced in waving patterns on the ceiling.

Ah, another day in paradise.

She ran her fingertips across the sheet and found that she was alone in the bed. Apparently Errol was already awake and had gotten up. He was probably in the bathroom. She could hear running water, but it didn’t sound like the shower. Flipping over toward the side of the bed, she stretched her arms over her head, extended her legs and curved her feet backwards. When she rose from the bed, her bare feet encountered the cool tile floor.

Where are my house slippers?

Cyrene rounded the foot of the bed, intending to surprise Errol in the bathroom, but as she passed by his side of the bed, she caught a glimpse of something red on the sheets.

What in the world?

They hadn’t spilled any wine in the bed, had they?

She moved closer, getting a better look at the dark red stains on the snowy white sheets.

How odd. It looks like blood.

Instinct kicked in, a primeval sixth sense that warned of danger.

“Errol?” She backed away from the bed. “Errol . . . Errol . . .”

Flooded with a barrage of frightening thoughts, Cyrene shook her head in denial, refusing to believe, trying to convince herself that nothing was wrong.

“Errol, where are you?” Silence. “Please, honey, answer me.”

Silence.

As if her limbs were activated by some sort of remote control, her legs and feet moved, carrying her toward the bathroom. Gazing down as she walked, she noticed a smear of dried red liquid stretching from the bed to the bathroom.

Suddenly she went numb, unable to feel her hands and feet. The thunderous roar of her heartbeat threatened to deafen her. This wasn’t real. It wasn’t happening.

Standing in the bathroom door, she stared at the body lying on the floor beside the bathtub overflowing with water.

Errol? Oh my God, Errol.

His eyes were closed.

A thin red line marred the perfection of his smooth, clean-shaven neck and rivulets of dried blood descended from that red line like trinkets on a charm bracelet.

Cyrene stood perfectly still, her mind unable to process what she saw.

And then, in the quiet stillness of her honeymoon suite, Mrs. Errol Patterson screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

Maleah squared her shoulders and took a deep breath before entering the prison’s visitation area. She didn’t look back at Derek nor did she glance at the guard escorting her. After showering and dressing—khaki slacks and dark green tailored blouse—she had met Derek downstairs for breakfast. She had managed to down a cup of coffee and eat a few bites of blueberry muffin, hoping to quiet the tempest in her belly. Although she had done her best to assure her partner that she was not nervous and was ready for today’s meeting with Jerome Browning, she sensed that he knew she was simply putting up a good front. And that she was doing it as much for herself as for him.

If you can act as if you are self-assured and confident, then you’ve already won half the battle.

She remained standing as she waited for the guards to bring Browning from his cell. Thinking about what she was going to say and wondering how he would respond, she heard rather than saw Browning enter the visitation area. When she looked directly at him, he stared back at her, that weirdly pleasant and completely unnerving smile growing wider and wider as he drew closer.

The guards instructed him to sit. He sat.

“Good morning, Maleah. I hope you had a pleasant night. I certainly did.” He licked his lips. “I dreamed about you and woke this morning eager to see you again.”

Is that the best you’ve got? she wanted to say. A little sexual innuendo isn’t going to unnerve me in the least. Not when you’re in shackles and there are three armed guards in the room with us.

“I slept quite well, thank you,” she lied to him. “A restful, dreamless sleep.”

“I assume Mr. Lawrence also slept well. Any man sharing your bed would sleep well after . . .” He didn’t finish the sentence, but the implication was obvious.

Was he fishing to find out if she and Derek were lovers? Or was he merely hoping the comment would insult her? Either way, she had no intention of responding.

“We have an hour,” Maleah said as she sat across from Browning. “I think we’ve wasted enough time on meaningless, uninteresting chit-chat.”

“Is your love life meaningless and uninteresting?” His smile never wavered.

“Do you know why I’m here, Jerome? Why I’m wasting my valuable time even talking to someone like you?”

“Someone like me?” He laughed. “Someone handsome and brilliant and gifted. And if I may be so immodest, someone who has been told that he is a superlative lover.”

Egotistical, maniacal, psychopathic monster! “You are someone who has murdered fifteen people.” She paused before adding, “That we know of. You are someone who will spend the rest of his life slowly rotting away in prison.”

He lifted his bound hands, gesturing toward his heart. “You wound me with such harsh words.” His smile turned quickly to a frown, his expression one of mock sadness.

“Do you know why I’m here?” She repeated her initial question.

“All work and no play makes Maleah a dull girl.”

“You know why I’m here and what I want.”

He stretched as languidly as his restrained body could and glanced from the guard on his right to the guard on his left, both men standing several feet behind him. “What am I going to do with such a dull, dull visitor, gentlemen? All she wants to do is talk business.”

Maleah eased back from the edge of the seat and crossed her arms. “The warden has granted us an hour