by Alicia Scott
Then suddenly, a voice, whispering in the same lilting tone: “Detective D. D. Warren, my old friend …”
D.D. halted. Her gaze ping-ponged reflexively, trying to determine the location of the voice as it continued, slow and mocking: “I’ve come to talk with you again… .”
She got it then. Felt her own blood turn to ice as the full implication sank in. Why do you stage a scene? Because you’re looking for an audience. Or maybe, one audience member in particular. Detective D. D. Warren. Darkness, my old friend.
Still holding her drawn SIG Sauer, she reached belatedly for her cell.
Just as a fresh noise registered directly behind her.
She spun. Eyes widening. But where, how …
The hulking figure, looming out of the shadows: “Hello, Detective… .”
Instinctively, D.D. stepped back. Except she’d forgotten about the top of the staircase. Her left foot, searching for traction, found only open space… .
No! Her cell, clattering down. Her SIG Sauer, coming up. Trying belatedly to lean forward, regain her balance.
And then … the shadow moving. Herself falling.
Just like that. Down, down, down.
At the last second, D.D. squeezed the trigger. An instinctive act of self-preservation. Boom, boom, boom. Though even she knew, it was too little, too late
Her head connected with the hardwood landing. A crack. A shooting pain.
And then the sound of silence …