Boston Cream Killer: Book 8 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series by Summer Prescott Page A

brush through her hair and headed out the door, looking for a decent meal. She never saw the man who waited until she stepped on the elevator before slipping quickly into her room.
    Once inside, he gingerly picked up the phone with a gloved hand and made a call that would inspire a series of events that could quite possibly bring down the Beckett empire.
    ***
    Hannah left the Thai Takeout Hut with a trendy paper bag that was emanating a delightful mixture of scents. She hadn’t been able to decide on just one dish, so she’d purchased three and would see which one suited her best. Munching on a spring roll and savoring the crunch of peanuts and julienned vegetables, covered by the delicate, spongy wrapping, she strode toward her rental car, looking forward to digging in and then putting together elements of her story on the Beckett family.
    “Ouch… ohhh noooo… help me… please. Someone… please… I’m hurt.”
    Hannah heard the soft cries coming from around the side of the restaurant. The area there was dark, bordering a vacant lot, and she couldn’t see where the sound was coming from. Normally, her first instinct would be to keep walking and mind her own business, but something about the helpless, plaintive sound made her curious. Not concerned, curious, the way that people are curious about car accidents and natural disasters. She didn’t care about whomever was hurting, but something compelled her to go see what had happened. She stood still for a moment, trying to decide whether she should go take a look, or simply go back to the hotel and fill her stomach, when she heard the cries again. Sighing, she knew that it would only take a moment to satisfy her curiosity, and then she could go home and eat.
    Hannah rounded the corner of the building, walking slowly. She could have used her cell phone flashlight to see better in the dark, but she didn’t want whomever was there to see her coming. If she could just catch a glance without being seen, so much the better. If something was really awful, she’d just call 911 and head home to eat, or if it was just a wino, complaining because of a hangover, she didn’t need or want to interact, and would slip quietly away. Either way, she’d be parked back in front of her computer, slurping up noodles and spicy sauce in less than twenty minutes.
    Picking her way carefully around dumpsters, stacked pallets, empty cardboard boxes, and various other castoffs from the restaurant, she made her way to the back corner of the building where she saw an elderly woman, in a housecoat and worn sneakers, lying on the ground, holding her knee and moaning in pain.
    “Oh, thank goodness,” the woman cried weakly, curled up miserably, her chin to her chest. “Heaven sent me an angel. Can you help me?” she reached out a shaking hand to the hard-bitten reporter, whose first instinct was to turn around and take her Thai home, pretending like she never saw or heard the old woman. “Please?” the woman was clearly on the verge of tears.
    Having no idea what was compelling her to suddenly take on the uncomfortable role of Good Samaritan, Hannah sighed inwardly, but approached the woman, bending down to see what was the matter.
    The last thing she saw was the coldly professional look in the killer’s eyes as he reached for her throat.
     
     

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
    Fiona McCamish nearly skipped into her boss’s office, excited by the phone call that had just come in.
    “Timmy, we’ve got one,” her eyes sparkled a bit.
    “Don’t call me that,” Timothy Eckels, the doughy, pale man behind the desk muttered. “Police or private?”
    “Police… homicide,” she announced, trying hard not to let her enthusiasm bubble over.
    Fiona had been working as the mortuary manager and personal assistant to Tim for several months now, and was learning gruesome and morbid new things every day. Her enigmatic boss had recently accepted a position as county medical examiner, which left much of the