Free The In Death Collection: Books 26-29 by J.D. Robb

“Lights on, fire on,” Eve ordered.
    Did you bring the rope, or did he have that tucked away?
    You brought it. Have to be sure, can’t screw up now. You have to have all the tools at hand.
    Was he nude already, or did you strip him? If you stripped him, where did you put the sleep clothes. A trophy?
    Wrists first. Do you feel his breath, his heavy, drugged breath on your skin when you bind his wrists? They’re limp, deadweight. He’s already helpless, but you have a stage to set. Wrists first.
    Then the ankles.
    Set out the toys.
    Time for the next dose. You want him hard. Slide the rings on his cock. How do you feel, fondling him when he’s helpless? Enjoyment or disgust? Or neither. Is it all just the next step now?
    Takes time, all this window dressing. Takes time, and effort. Have to get into bed with death now to finish it.
    Eve hitched up, braced a knee on the bed. Not enough leverage, she decided, and climbed on until she knelt beside her mind picture of Anders, imagined tying the last rope, winding it around his neck. Heavy head. Secure the second end of the rope and the head falls forward. It practically does the work for you.
    She eased off the bed again, smoothed out any depression. Study the work, she mused, go over your checklist. How’s his breathing? Is it already changing? Is his system already sending out alarm signals his mind and body can’t answer?
    Pack up the light, the syringes, walk away. Leave the door open.
    Unlike the killer, Eve locked and sealed it. When she walked downstairs, her mind still walking alongside the killer, she saw Greta sitting stiff-spined in a chair in the foyer.
    â€œMr. Forrest asked if I’d stay, in case you needed anything. He’s taken Mrs. Anders to Ms. Plowder’s home.”
    â€œNo, I’ve got all I need. You should go home.”
    â€œYes, I should go home.” She put on the serviceable coat draped over her arm.
    â€œGreta, what did Mr. Anders wear in bed?”
    â€œI beg your pardon!”
    â€œThere were pajamas in his drawer. You supervise the laundry, correct?”
    â€œI—Yes, of course. Mr. Anders wore sensible pajamas. A fresh pair daily, pressed. No starch.”
    â€œHow many pairs did he have?”
    â€œAt last count, which would have been Monday last, Mr. Anders owned ten pairs of all-cotton pajamas.”
    â€œTen pairs. Did Mr. Anders routinely use sleep aids?”
    â€œI wouldn’t know. I’m sorry. I have purchased them from time to time, as I do the marketing, the shopping. I can’t say if either Mr. or Mrs. Anders used them, or if that was routine use.”
    â€œOkay. You’ve been very helpful.”
    Greta fit a gray hat over her head. “Being helpful is what I do.”
    When the door closed behind Greta, Eve stood where she was and let it settle around her. The quiet, the sensation of empty. Turning, she walked through the foyer, took the left hall. Rooms, she thought, the more money somebody had the more rooms he needed to keep the stuff he spent his money on.
    And the more money and more rooms and more stuff, the more security to stop somebody from coming in and robbing you blind.
    Anders’s security room was off the kitchen, another locked door requiring its own keypad or code. Eve used her master, opened it. Inside were the screens for inner security, and those for outer. All ran now. Figuring security could afford a quick breach with a cop in the house, she checked the code EDD had given her, keyed it in. The current disc for the exterior front ejected.
    She tapped it back in, glanced over at the empty disc file.
    Load ’em up, she thought. Cover all contingencies. Go out, lock the room. Why? Just being orderly?
    She strode back to the front door, took a last glance around. Stepping out, she relocked, resealed. Then looked at her wrist unit. Taking time out for the three-minute conversation with Greta, from entry to exit, the reenactment