length of its china back and moved it further down the line, next to the brown-eyed golden cocker-spaniel.
As I turned away, determined not to ever sleep in this room again, I caught something in my peripheral vision that made all my childhood nightmares seem tame. At the end of the line, its tail pointing jauntily towards the sky, stood my cheeky brown and white boxer dog. And next to it, like two tiny pebbles, lay the dog’s broken ears.
I owned a boxer dog once…hated the thing…tied him to a tree and shot both his ears off…
The room spun. Nausea ate into my bones, turned my limbs into useless lumps of soggy mush. To keep myself upright, I grabbed for the dresser and held on.
The murderer had been in my bedroom.
Again.
And just like last time…
He’d left a calling card.
A scream caught in my throat threatening to choke me. I swallowed it down then forced my eyes away from the mutilated statue. Who or what was I up against? The doors and windows were locked. The police had been crawling all over my house like blowflies on a carcass until a couple of hours ago. And even now—two men-in-blue were staked out by my front gate.
Drawn against my will, I gazed down at the two broken ears and almost gagged. What if they’d been Tater’s ears? What if this monster had tied my darling little Tater up and shot off his ears?
If the killer’s aim was to scare me off, he’d sure as hell succeeded.
Mouth dry, I stuffed the broken statue into the back pocket of my jeans and headed for the open doorway. If this psycho intended using my bedroom as a drop-in centre, there was no way I was hanging around waiting for his next visit. And as for reporting the incident to the police—what could I say? I’d found one of my dog statues with its ears broken off? I’d be laughed out of the station. And if I blabbed about the threatening phone call I’d be demoted from chief suspect to victim in a body bag.
Poker stiff, breath escaping in short raspy gasps, I descended the stairs. Was the killer waiting in the shadows? Was he hiding in the linen cupboard ready to spring out at me? Jesus…it would only take someone to say boo right now and there’d be no need for a sharp instrument to the left ventricle. I’d die of fright.
At last I reached the front door. But as my damp fingers closed around the white plastic knob, I caught a blurred movement off to the right.
Tater.
Scooping the scrap of brown fur up under my arm, I yanked the door open and not taking time out to either lock up or switch off lights, stumbled outside. The little dog wriggled in my arms, wanting to get down. I tightened my grip. Cleo let out another mournful howl from the kennel house. It hung in the air, making the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
Mouth open, panting like I’d run a marathon, I tossed Tater into the passenger seat of my car, scrambled in behind the wheel, jammed the locks down on all the doors…and burnt rubber.
Didn’t even stop to let my two protectors at the gate know how completely bloody useless they’d been .
7
Body rigid behind the wheel of my car, I stared at Tanya’s front porch. Forced myself to pull in a deep breath. That monster had been in my bedroom again . The bare light globe hanging on a cord set high in the roof of the porch swung in the breeze, throwing more shadows than light. His creepy fingers sliding everywhere . Long formless shadows moved across the red brick path leading up to Tanya’s front door. The same fingers that likely rifled through my underwear, smoothed the fabric on the clothes in my wardrobe, selected the sharpest knife from the drawer in my kitchen and savagely plunged the blade deep into Matthew Turner’s heart.
I choked back a sob. Tasted raw fear as it flooded my mouth. With Tater clamped in the crook of my arm, I manhandled the door open and threw myself out of the car. Knees weak, I staggered, righted myself, then made a dash toward the light. Desperate to shed the paralysis
As I turned away, determined not to ever sleep in this room again, I caught something in my peripheral vision that made all my childhood nightmares seem tame. At the end of the line, its tail pointing jauntily towards the sky, stood my cheeky brown and white boxer dog. And next to it, like two tiny pebbles, lay the dog’s broken ears.
I owned a boxer dog once…hated the thing…tied him to a tree and shot both his ears off…
The room spun. Nausea ate into my bones, turned my limbs into useless lumps of soggy mush. To keep myself upright, I grabbed for the dresser and held on.
The murderer had been in my bedroom.
Again.
And just like last time…
He’d left a calling card.
A scream caught in my throat threatening to choke me. I swallowed it down then forced my eyes away from the mutilated statue. Who or what was I up against? The doors and windows were locked. The police had been crawling all over my house like blowflies on a carcass until a couple of hours ago. And even now—two men-in-blue were staked out by my front gate.
Drawn against my will, I gazed down at the two broken ears and almost gagged. What if they’d been Tater’s ears? What if this monster had tied my darling little Tater up and shot off his ears?
If the killer’s aim was to scare me off, he’d sure as hell succeeded.
Mouth dry, I stuffed the broken statue into the back pocket of my jeans and headed for the open doorway. If this psycho intended using my bedroom as a drop-in centre, there was no way I was hanging around waiting for his next visit. And as for reporting the incident to the police—what could I say? I’d found one of my dog statues with its ears broken off? I’d be laughed out of the station. And if I blabbed about the threatening phone call I’d be demoted from chief suspect to victim in a body bag.
Poker stiff, breath escaping in short raspy gasps, I descended the stairs. Was the killer waiting in the shadows? Was he hiding in the linen cupboard ready to spring out at me? Jesus…it would only take someone to say boo right now and there’d be no need for a sharp instrument to the left ventricle. I’d die of fright.
At last I reached the front door. But as my damp fingers closed around the white plastic knob, I caught a blurred movement off to the right.
Tater.
Scooping the scrap of brown fur up under my arm, I yanked the door open and not taking time out to either lock up or switch off lights, stumbled outside. The little dog wriggled in my arms, wanting to get down. I tightened my grip. Cleo let out another mournful howl from the kennel house. It hung in the air, making the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
Mouth open, panting like I’d run a marathon, I tossed Tater into the passenger seat of my car, scrambled in behind the wheel, jammed the locks down on all the doors…and burnt rubber.
Didn’t even stop to let my two protectors at the gate know how completely bloody useless they’d been .
7
Body rigid behind the wheel of my car, I stared at Tanya’s front porch. Forced myself to pull in a deep breath. That monster had been in my bedroom again . The bare light globe hanging on a cord set high in the roof of the porch swung in the breeze, throwing more shadows than light. His creepy fingers sliding everywhere . Long formless shadows moved across the red brick path leading up to Tanya’s front door. The same fingers that likely rifled through my underwear, smoothed the fabric on the clothes in my wardrobe, selected the sharpest knife from the drawer in my kitchen and savagely plunged the blade deep into Matthew Turner’s heart.
I choked back a sob. Tasted raw fear as it flooded my mouth. With Tater clamped in the crook of my arm, I manhandled the door open and threw myself out of the car. Knees weak, I staggered, righted myself, then made a dash toward the light. Desperate to shed the paralysis
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