Eight Days to Live by Iris Johansen

sounded very firm and held all the determination she was familiar with in Eve, Jane thought as she hung up. She had known that would be Eve’s reaction. Their relationship had been more as best friends than mother and daughter all these years, but Eve could display a tigerish maternal protectiveness when the people she cared about were threatened.
    Jane had tried to downplay that threat, but how could she do that when Celine’s ugly death loomed over her like a poised guillotine?
    She would have to think of something to keep Eve away from her. That guillotine must never threaten Eve. But right now, her mind wasn’t functioning very well. She turned toward the bathroom. Take a shower. Get to bed and try to sleep. Heaven knows, she was exhausted. Maybe when she woke, everything would become clear to her.
    Or at least a little less clouded.
    SHE MIGHT BE EXHAUSTED but there was no way that she was going to sleep, Jane realized.
    She had been lying here in this bed for fifteen minutes, and neither her muscles nor her mind would release their tension.
    The darkness is overpowering, Jane thought, as she stared up at the ceiling. This guest room had seemed friendly, soothing, all the other nights she had spent in Celine’s apartment.
    Or maybe it was the memory of what had happened downstairs that was overpowering. She couldn’t get away from the picture of Celine on that door.
    Hideous.
    She closed her eyes and tried to block it out, once more remember Celine as she had been earlier in the evening. So full of vitality. So full of joy.
    The tears were suddenly running down her cheeks. She had felt numb before, unable to comprehend anything beyond the horror. But now the horror was fading, and the sheer tragedy of that vibrant woman whose life had been taken was with her.
    Damn that bastard.
    And if MacDuff and Jock were right, then Celine had died because she had been connected to Jane. Why? It didn’t make any more sense to her now than it had when MacDuff had first told her.
    She huddled down in the bed and closed her eyes as sobs shook her body. Celine . . .
    What was she doing? she thought with sudden self-disgust. Next she’d be covering her head with the covers. She had lost a friend, but Celine had lost her life. She wiped her eyes and struggled to sit up in bed. Okay, stop whimpering and start thinking. Figure it out. She wasn’t going to be sleeping anyway.
    First step.
    Find out why she had been targeted.
    Blasphemer. Very flimsy. But, if it had meaning at all, what sacrilege had she supposedly committed?
    She shook her head in frustration. Who knew what small infraction might be interpreted as sacrilege to a fanatic?
    All right, then go to step two.
    The newspaper story that Venable had gotten from his informant and the identical copies that Jock had said other members of the Sang Noir been given. Since Jane had no previous contact with the group, was there something in the article that might have triggered that crazy act? What had she said to the reporter? Was there some quote from her that had started the nightmare? She couldn’t even remember any of the questions the journalist had asked her. She was never very patient with interviews. She knew that publicity was necessary, but she always thought that her work should speak for itself. There was no telling if that impatience might have translated into a less-than-diplomatic answer.
    She turned on the light and threw the covers aside. There wasno use wondering when she had the article itself. She had tossed the newspaper on the chest by the door when she had come into the bedroom.
    Her own photo smiled up at her from the page. She actually looked friendly and approachable. She vaguely remembered Celine’s joking with the photographer and making faces at Jane.
    Celine, again.
    She drew a shaky breath and started scanning the text. Nothing controversial, actually pretty boring. How long had she been painting? She had a mixture of portraits and landscapes in the