Free Carved in Darkness by Maegan Beaumont Page A

papery skin that covered it. He stabbed and hacked, even though Lucy was well beyond his reach now, one motion blurring into another until his arm was tired and his vision cleared.
    His rage finally spent, he stood over her, chest heaving as his breath came in deep, gasping gulps. His sweat and her blood mixed together, plastered his shirt to his chest. Looking down at the mess he made, at the lump of flesh barely recognizable as a human being, he felt no remorse. Only a need for more .
    He felt a tingle, a crackle of electricity danced along his skin. His hands and face were covered in the old woman’s blood … but it was Melissa’s blood too, wasn’t it?
    He could feel it seep into his pores—currents of electricity dove deeper and deeper. No longer skin deep, they jolted his bones, moved his muscles. On impulse, he brought the broad blade of the knife to his mouth and ran it along his tongue. Heat flooded his veins and settled heavily in his groin. God, he’d missed the taste of her.
    Lucy’s sightless blue eyes, so like her granddaughter’s, seemed to stare at him. Beckoned him.
    More. He needed more.
    He folded his knife, slipped it into his pocket and picked up the hammer. He used the claw end to remove the nails from her feet and tossed them aside. Whistling along with Gene, he gripped the back of Lucy’s chair and dragged her to the doorway leading to the basement. The door swung shut behind them, and he was careful to lock it. He was with his Melissa again.
    They were alone in the dark, and he didn’t want any interr-
uptions.

ELEVEN
    I N THE END, THE Glenfiddich went unopened. Instead, Michael took a few aspirin and washed them down with a bottle of water. Sabrina was a machine. She and that goofy-ass dog ran eight miles every morning. No matter how little sleep she got or how bad the nightmares were, she never missed a run. Running with a hangover was never a good idea.
    And her nightmares had gotten bad. So bad that if she wasn’t pacing the length of her room in the dark, she was thrashing around on her bed, trying to pull clear of whatever nightmare held her. She usually gave up around one or two in the morning. Sometimes she’d make her way through the house, checking and re-checking windows and doors to ensure they were locked.
    Other times she’d clean her collection of firearms. Make sure they were all loaded and easily accessible. Her behavior bordered on compulsive. He’d been watching her long enough to know the shield and armor she’d fashioned herself out of lies and years of denial was starting to crack.
    His watch read just before noon. She wouldn’t be home for at least another five or six hours. He tossed the binocs on the bed and hit the shower. What the aspirin couldn’t fix, he was hoping hot water would take care of. He took his time; with Sabrina at work, he had plenty to spare. He shaved away a few days’ worth of stubble before stepping into the shower stall. The spray of scalding water loosened the stress-induced knots, and he stayed in long after the water began to cool. He stepped out of the stall just in time to hear his cell issue a muted beep from the next room. He’d missed another call.
    He threw a towel around his waist, left the bathroom to retrieve his phone from the dresser. The screen display showed six voicemails. Scrolling through the missed call log, he saw every one of them were from Lucy.
    On speaker phone, he guided his cell through the menu until he reached the first message.
    “Michael, it’s Lucy. Call me, please … ” Delete.
    “Michael, this is Lucy. I need to talk to you … ” Delete.
    “Michael, I know you’re avoiding … ” Delete.
    “Boy, if you have the sense God gave a turnip … ” Delete.
    “Michael—who did you tell?”
    He almost deleted the message before he fully comprehended what was said. He hit the playback option instead and listened to it again.
    “Michael—who did you tell?” Lucy said, her voice hushed, like she