One (Count to Ten Book 1)

by Jane Blythe

  Xavier had to admit that he definitely did, too. “Well, tomorrow morning we have an appointment with the next-door neighbor who called it in; hopefully, he’ll be able to give us something to go on. Then we’ll talk with every relative, family friend, and co-worker we can find and try to get a picture of the family and who, if anyone, might hate them enough to kill them. And then…” He paused for a moment, wondering how they were going to face Annabelle after they'd accused her of murder and whether she’d be willing to help them, “…then we’ll go see Annabelle.”

  With shocked dismay, Xavier realized that the thought that Annabelle Englewood—a woman he’d met less than twenty-four hours ago, bleeding to death in her home, spoken maybe a hundred words to, and had believed to be a killer—might not forgive him actually made his stomach clench in a way it hadn’t in a really long time.

  * * * * *

  11:17 P.M.

  He was giggling like a schoolgirl.

  He’d watched every glorious second.

  From the time the first unit had responded, he had watched with eager anticipation as the male and female detectives edged their way through the front yard and into the house. He’d watched as more police cars and an ambulance had barreled down upon the house. He’d clapped with glee as the paramedics and the male detective had carried Annabelle Englewood out into the waiting ambulance. He’d been pretty sure that the girl would survive the wound he’d inflicted on her. He’d been very careful not to plunge the knife too deep; he didn’t want to sever anything vital or cause the girl to bleed to death before she arrived at a hospital.

  When the place had begun to swarm with crime scene techs and the two detectives had begun talking to people in the crowd, he had taken it as his cue to—reluctantly—disappear.

  Arriving home, he had quickly switched on the news and spent the day glued to his television. He’d been pleased when he heard them reporting the story as a murder/suicide where the murderer had somehow managed to survive, and he wondered how long it would take the police to discover that Annabelle had been framed.

  It was nothing personal against the girl, nor had it been necessary, but sometimes in life a little fun was necessary, and the idea of framing one of his victims had appealed to him so he had run with it.

  Of course, he had been careful not to frame her too well, he didn’t actually want the police to shut the case down because they believed that they already had their killer in custody. So he had painted the blood on her feet, and then walked her limp body from room to room. He’d made sure to leave the front door locked behind him when he had slipped out one of the windows.

  Lacing the pasta sauce with sleeping pills had been easy. The Englewood family were fairly predictable, especially Annabelle, and it hadn’t taken him long to learn their patterns. Each night of the week had its own specific dinner, always cooked by Annabelle, and when he’d snuck into their house the other day, the pasta sauce had seemed a good option since he could stir in the powder until it was invisible.

  Drugging them hadn’t really been necessary; he could have handled things without having to resort to that. However, if he wanted the police to think that Annabelle had done it, then he had decided they might be suspicious about how a five foot five, hundred and twenty-pound woman could overpower her much larger father and brothers.

  Now it was exactly twenty-four hours since he had crept inside the silent home. The sight of the sleeping bodies lying so helplessly beneath him had been incredibly intoxicating. As the knife had slid so smoothly through the thin flesh of his victims’ throats, he had found himself mesmerized by the gushing blood. It had looked so beautiful in the moonlight, shimmering like a sparkling river. He’d been unable to resist putting his hand in it and letting the thick liquid dance through his fingers.

  Before that moment, he’d never realized how beautiful blood was. It had been a disappointment when he’d cut off the hands that there had been comparatively so little of it, but still there had been plenty to enjoy.

  In the end, it had been very hard to tear himself away from the glorious sight, but once all the bodies were dead and Annabelle had been injured, it had been time to slip silently away. Now that he was home, he realized he was yearning to be back there. That blood was so intoxicating.

  Stretching out on his bed, he tried to recreate the scene in his mind. He pictured the rooms and the bodies, the warm air, the smell of copper; but it just wasn’t the same, it was missing the most important ingredient.

  Rooting around under his bed, he pulled out the knife that had been used to slay the Englewood family. For a moment he was captivated by the glinting metal, the way the thin light of his lamp bounced off it, making it seem as though the knife were swaying to a song only it could hear.

  Bringing the tip of the blade to his arm, without a second’s hesitation, he made a light split in the skin. Watching with great awe as a trickle of blood oozed out, the fingers of his other hand dipping into it. Lifting his hand, he was enthralled once more by the beautiful sight of the blood that clung there.

  Picturing perfectly the scene in the Englewood house, he curled up in bed and willed sleep to come so he could relive every delightful second in his dreams.

  MAY 5th

  2:09 A.M.

  Vanessa Adams was on cloud nine.

  Every couple of seconds she kept glancing at the clock. Only twenty-one minutes to go until he’d be here.

  Her parents didn’t approve of him, but she was seventeen now, and as far as she was concerned they had no input into whom she dated. Besides, Vincent Abrams was so dreamy, more than any girl could hope for. He was a college sophomore, he rode a motorbike, he had amazing blue eyes that Vanessa could stare into for hours, and thick reddish brown hair that felt amazing running through her hands.

  There was no doubt about it. She was in love. Head over heels in love.

  Vanessa couldn’t think of anything more wonderful than to be lying in Vince's strong arms, nestled against his hard, muscled chest, his hands roaming her body.

  Tonight was the night.

  The night where they planned on taking their relationship to the next level.

  She had been dreaming about this for months. Ever since she had seen him at her cousin’s football game, it had been love at first sight. And Vanessa was positive that Vince was the man she was going to spend the rest of her life with.

  She was so tired of her parents telling her she was too young to have a serious relationship, that she didn’t know what she wanted, and that she would soon lose interest in Vince or he in her.

  They didn’t know what they were talking about.

  She was seventeen, not seven, and she knew how she felt about Vince. The way her heart squeezed whenever he was nearby, the way her stomach turned somersaults, the way her brain turned to goo and she lost all track of time. Vanessa knew that Vince was her other half and she was ready to give herself to him.

  Glancing at the clock, now it was only eleven minutes to go.

  She decided that another quick check of the house was in order. She certainly didn’t want anyone barging in on her right in the middle of things, and just because it was the middle of the night didn’t mean that no one was lurking.

  Five months ago her dad had lost his job, and then not long after that they’d lost their house and been forced to move in with her grandparents. Now it seemed like she was never alone. With her dad home most of the time, he had made it his business to get all up in her life. He insisted on driving her to and from school each day, hovering over her while she completed her homework, and inserting himself into every aspect of her life. Vanessa hated it. She was a big girl. Her parents had never before been interested in what she’d been up to; she wasn’t used to that level of attention.

  As if her dad losing his job wasn’t bad enough, her little brother seemed to have gotten a million times more annoying since they'd moved here. Justin was thirteen and a horror movie nut. He had a whole case full of them, insisted on spending a
ll his time watching them, and when he wasn’t doing that, he was spouting out useless horror movie trivia. Last night at dinner he’d been rabbiting on about how any young girl who gave up her virginity in a horror movie was destined to be brutally murdered.

  That sent tremors of excitement tingling through her. Not the horror movie part, but the part about losing her virginity.

  Another glance at the clock, only four minutes to go.

  Unable to keep still, Vanessa climbed out of bed, fiddling with the sexy lingerie she’d bought for tonight and wishing that her parents and grandparents would let her put a lock on her door. Apparently a lock didn’t say happy family, so when she’d asked, she had been given a resounding no by all four adults.

  Grabbing her desk chair, she carried it over and propped it up under the door handle. Even though her check of the house had found everything quiet and dark it didn’t mean things would stay that way, so if anyone should be up and about and hear something, then at least the chair would slow them down a little.

  Next, she lit the scented candles that were dotted about her room, and smoothed out the satin sheets she’d been hiding in the back of her closet in preparation for this night. She stood at the open window where she anxiously waited for her prince charming to arrive.

  One minute to go.

  Wanting to look just perfect when Vince arrived, she stretched out on the bed and tried to assume a sexy, womanly pose. Vanessa had to admit she was a little nervous. She was only seventeen and still a virgin. Vince was nineteen, and with his gorgeous looks, he was sure to have been with any number of beautiful and experienced women. She didn’t want to look stupid or inexperienced; she wanted everything to be perfect.

  When Vince had first broached the topic of sex with her, she hadn’t been sure, but then he’d said that he understood and that he loved her and that if she was sure that she loved him then nothing should stop them from joining their bodies together. Even though she was excited, she was also plenty anxious, she really hoped she wasn’t about to make a fool out of herself…

  “Hey, pretty girl.”

  Jumping, Vanessa realized she’d dozed off for a minute there and now Vince was standing above her. He looked amazing, and Vanessa wondered once again why someone like him would even give someone like her the time of day. She wasn’t ugly exactly, Vanessa supposed; she was just plain, with ash blonde hair and brown eyes, a little too tall for a girl her age, and a little too chubby. Still, the way Vince was looking at her right now made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the whole world.

  “Hey, yourself,” she gave him a dopey, lovesick smile.

  “Are you sure you're ready?”

  Enjoying his silky voice, Vanessa hardly heard what he said, already her body had begun beating with desire. “I’m ready,” she gushed.

  She watched with delight as his hands began to fumble with his buttons, and within seconds his shirt lay discarded on the floor beside her bed. It didn’t take long for his shorts to join them, and as he slid off his boxers she couldn’t help a thrilled gurgle escaping her lips as she took in the sight of him.

  Still, an anxious fluttering took up residence in her stomach as his hands reached for her clothes, but she made no move to stop him and before she knew it she was lying naked before him. For one horrible second, Vanessa was sure that Vince was going to be repulsed by her, but then she saw his hungry eyes and all her doubts flew away.

  Ever so slowly he stretched out on top of her, his lips finding hers, his hands exploring her body and Vanessa readied herself for the most amazing night of her life until all hell broke loose…

  * * * * *

  8:41 A.M.

  “Sorry I wasn’t able to be available for you yesterday.”

  Ricky Preston apologized for at least the twentieth time since they'd arrived here to speak with him approximately one and a half minutes ago.

  “We understand,” Xavier assured him, although it was quite annoying that they'd been unable to speak with the man who had made the 911 call, but by the time they'd arrived at his house, he’d already left for his doctor’s appointment. Still, if they'd known then what they knew now, that Annabelle had not slaughtered the rest of the Englewood family, then they would have tracked down the neighbor and insisted on speaking with him immediately.

  “It’s just, you know what doctors are like,” Ricky continued as he led them into a den. “I didn’t want to lose my appointment; I’m pretty anxious to get back to work.” He held up his arm, encased in a bulky cast.

  “How did you break your arm?” Xavier asked, trying to get comfortable on what had to be the world’s worst sofa. As he tried to arrange himself in such a way that didn’t make it feel like a brick was pressing into his back, he took in the rest of the room. It seemed as though Ricky was quite the art collector. The walls were filled with what looked like expensive pieces of artwork, several sculptures were dotted around, and there were even a couple of ancient looking masks in a cabinet in the far corner.

  “Work,” Ricky smiled ruefully. “I'm a carpenter. I was up on a ladder working to finish the top of a cabinet, fell off and broke my arm. Pretty bad, too; had to have a pin put in it. I’m just itching to get this cast off and get back to work.” He narrowed his eyes, “I heard that you think Annabelle killed her family.”

  “What exactly did you see?” Kate asked, wiggling uncomfortably.

  “Annabelle would never hurt anyone,” Ricky persisted.

  “Why don’t you explain to us exactly what you saw that night?” Kate suggested patiently.

  “Annabelle is the sweetest girl I've ever met,” Ricky insisted. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly, takes good care of her family.” Catching their frustrated glares, he sighed, “Fine. I've been having trouble sleeping since I broke my arm. Sometimes I just toss and turn in bed, but sometimes I get up, watch some TV or read, and sometimes, especially when its warm, I like to go and sit outside in the yard. I was out there, just kind of gazing at the stars, when something caught my eye. I looked and I thought it was someone holding a knife, it was glinting in the moonlight. I thought it might just be my overactive imagination, so I came inside and got out my telescope. My spare bedroom looks out onto John and Kathy’s room. There was no one in there with a knife, but I saw blood—lots of blood—so I called nine-one-one.”

  “Did you get a look at the person holding the knife?” Kate asked.

  “No, I just saw a shadowy figure standing, holding something that I thought looked like a knife,” Ricky replied.

  “So you couldn’t tell if they were male or female, old or young, tall or short?” Kate peppered.

  “No, just a black figure,” Ricky repeated.

  “And you only saw one figure?” Xavier asked, thinking of his partner’s theory that Annabelle and a boyfriend may have committed the crimes.

  “Yes, just one.” He eyed them shrewdly. “Why? You can’t honestly think that Annabelle did this.”

  “What can you tell us about the Englewood family?” Xavier asked, instead of answering.

  Clearly annoyed by their refusal to answer his questions, Ricky Preston sighed once more but answered, “They’re a really lovely family. Been living next to them for going on four years now and never had a single problem. John and I both like football, he’d come over, we’d watch together pretty regularly. Kathy, she was a really nice lady, even brought me over some chicken soup when I had the flu last winter. The boys were great kids, and that little Katherine was an absolute doll, sweetest little girl I've ever had the pleasure of meeting.”

  “What about Annabelle?” Xavier asked, waiting with baited breath for the answer. He couldn’t seem to shake a sense of intrigue where Annabelle was concerned.

  “She is an amazing young woman,” Ricky gushed. “She’s sweet and caring and thoughtful. She’d spend most of her free time taking care of little Katherine when she wasn’t cooking or cleaning or doing the grocery shopping.”

  “Was there something going on between you
and Annabelle?” he demanded, a little more intensely than was necessary.

  “What? No!” Ricky looked genuinely shocked at the suggestion. “Annabelle’s just a girl and I’m old enough to be her father.”

  “Annabelle is twenty-three, right?” Kate queried.

  “Right,” Ricky appeared to be trying to figure out where they were heading.

  “Is there any reason that she still lives at home with her parents? Not that I'm saying there’s anything wrong with that; it just seems like it’s a little odd for someone her age,” Kate added with a smile.

  “You’d have to ask Annabelle about that,” Ricky smiled back.

  “Annabelle’s a teacher, right?” he asked.

  “Right, kindergarten.”

  “That must be pretty tiring,” he mused. Xavier always felt more wiped out after an afternoon with his nieces and nephews than when he’d been up for a couple of days straight without sleep.

  “I’d imagine so,” Ricky agreed warily.

  “And then she comes home and babysits her little sister, and then cooks dinner and does the cleaning, as well. Any reason why her mom or dad didn’t help out with the chores?”

  “Again, you'd have to ask Annabelle about that,” Ricky’s blue eyes danced merrily.

  For a man who had to be in his mid-forties, Ricky Preston was in great shape. His muscles bulged beneath his white t-shirt, and his tanned face was smooth and wrinkle free. His honey-colored hair was combed neatly in place, and Xavier wondered whether perhaps there actually was something going on between Annabelle and her neighbor. “What was Annabelle’s relationship like with her parents?”