Free Sweet Little Lies by J.T. Ellison

deep, gruff voice greeted her. “Meet me?”
he asked.
    “Give me an hour,” she said, looking at her
watch. She hung up and smiled for the first time all night.
     
     
     
    14
     
    Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All
rights reserved.
     
    “ And now Snow White lay a long, long time
in the coffin, and she did not change, but looked as if she were
asleep, for she was as white as snow, as red as blood, and her hair
was as black as ebony.”
    —The Brothers Grimm, Snow White
     
    Would the bastard ever call?
    Smoke drifted from the ashtray where a fine
Cohiba lay unattended. Several stubbed out butts crowded the glass,
competing for space. The man looked at his watch. Had it been
done?
    He smashed the lit cigar into the thick cut
crystal, neglecting to extinguish it fully. It smoldered with the
rest as he stalked through his office. He went to the window, grimy
panes lightly frosted with a thin layer of freezing condensation.
It was cold early this year. With one gloved finger, he traced an X
in the frost. He stared out into the night. Though nearly midnight,
the skyline was bright and raucous. Some festival on the grounds of
Cheekwood, good cheer, grand times. If he squinted, he could make
out headlights flashing by as overpaid valets squired the vehicles
around the curves of the Boulevard.
    He tapped his fingers against the glass,
wiping his drawing away with a swipe of leather. Turning, he
surveyed the room. So empty. So dark. Ghosts lurked in the murky
recesses. The shadows were growing, threatening. Breath coming
short, he snapped on the desk lamp. He gasped, drawing air into his
lungs as deeply as he could, the panic stripped away by a
fluorescent bulb. The light was feeble in the cavernous space, but
it was illumination. Some things never change. After all these
years, still afraid of the dark.
    The bare desk was smeared with ashes, empty
except for the fine rosewood box, the ashtray and the now silent
telephone. The room too was spartan, the monotony broken only by
the simple desk, a high back leather chair on wheels and three
folding chairs. He opened the humidor and extracted another of the
40th anniversary Cohibas. He followed the ritual—snipping off the
tip, holding the lighter to the end, slowly twirling the cigar in
the flame until the tobacco caught. He drew deeply, soothing smoke
pouring into his lungs. There. That was better.
    The isolation was necessary. He didn’t like
people seeing him this way. It was better if they perceived him as
the strong, capable man he’d always been, not this crippled
creature, this dark entity with gnarled hands and a bent back. How
would that image strike fear?
    Not long now. Fear would be his pale horse,
ridden from the backs of red-lipped girls. His duplicates. His
surrogates. His replacements.
    The ringing of the phone made him jump.
Finally. He answered with a brusque “Yes?” He listened, then ended
the call.
    An unhurried smile spread across his face,
the first of the night. It was time. Time to start again, to
resurface. A new face, a new body, a new soul. With a last glance
out the window, he snubbed out the cigar, closed up the humidor and
braved the shadows. Moving resolutely toward the door, he
disappeared into the gloom.
    ***
    The phone was ringing. Somewhere in the
recesses of her brain, she recognized the sound, knew she’d have to
answer. But damn it, she was having a really nice dream. Without
opening her eyes, Taylor Jackson reached across the warm body next
to her, positioned the receiver next to her ear and grunted,
“Hello?”
    “Taylor, this is your mother.”
    Taylor cracked an eyelid, tried to focus one
eye on the glowing clock face. 2:48 A.M.
    “Who’s dead?”
    “Goodness, Taylor, you don’t have to be so
gruff.”
    “Mother, it’s the middle of the night. Why
are you calling me in the middle of the night? Because you have
some kind of bad news. So if you could just spit it out so I can go
back to sleep, I’d appreciate