She checked her watch. It was almost half past five. Her message had said she’d be there after four. Well, she hadn’t lied, and if Mrs. Green wasn’t home, at least Faye’d had a nice walk down memory lane. Maybe she’d drive past her old house and rub a little more salt in her wounds.
Faye crossed the foyer to the stairs. By the time she reached the third floor, she had to admit she was out of shape. She’d had to give up her gym membership months ago because of her reduction in pay.
She opened the door to the third floor. Unlike some of the low rises she visited as a reporter, there were no lingering odors of garlic and fish in these pristine hallways. The floor was covered in a thick, taupe carpet to muffle the sound of footsteps, and the cream-colored paint on the walls was clean and fresh. There were six apartments in the building, two units per floor. The Greens occupied the left unit.
Every hair on Faye’s body stood on end as she approached the oak door. It was open. Mrs. Green never left the door open. The woman double- and triple-locked everything. The last time she’d been here—was it really two years ago?—it had taken forever for the woman to undo the locks and let her in.
“Mrs. Green, are you there? It’s Faye.” She pushed open the door and the unmistakable scent of blood—that slightly sour, coppery scent she’d never forget—greeted her. She swallowed a scream. The place was a disaster: furniture overturned, papers, books, CDs, and DVDs littering the floor. There, amidst the chaos, lay Mary’s mother, the jagged red line along her throat testifying to her death.
Faye dropped the flower and damaged purse, some of the contents spilling out and landing in the pool of blood—a tube of lipstick, a pack of gum, a roll of breath mints—strange sprinkles on the deep red surface. The pristine white petals of the carnation soaked up the redness, adding to the eeriness. She ran to the powder room and threw herself on her knees barely in time to spew what was left of her cucumber and watercress sandwiches into the toilet. The pungent, sour aroma of vomit filled the room. Tears tracked down her cheeks. The gut wrenching heaves that followed brought up bile and left her exhausted. She sat back on her heels, trying to control her anguish. With a shaking hand, she pulled her cell phone out of her jacket pocket and dialed a familiar number.
“Homicide, Rob Halliday.” The voice was tired, bored, resigned.
“Rob, it’s Faye. She’s dead. Lucy Green’s dead. There’s so much blood. Someone’s murdered Mary’s mother.”
“Where are you?” Rob was all business, as if there were no painful history between them. Deep down, she knew this no-nonsense, professional side of him was what she needed, why she’d called him and not 9-1-1.
“Third floor, seventeen thirty-seven Marlborough. It’s in Beacon Hill.”
“I know where the damn street is, Faye. Stay there, and don’t touch anything. I’m on my way.”
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Crimson Romance
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Copyright © 2017 by M.H. Susanne Matthews.
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First Crimson Romance ebook edition JULY 2017.
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ISBN 978-1-5072-0563-1 (ebook)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
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