Free Carved in Darkness by Maegan Beaumont Page B

didn’t want to be overheard. In the background, he heard someone call out. What was said was indistinguishable. The voice was too low and faint to make out the words. Apprehension tightened the skin on the back of his neck.
    She hadn’t been alone when she left that last message.
    He saved the message to his archives and played the next one, hoping it would offer a clue to what was wrong. No one spoke. On the other end, all he heard was a deep well of silence.
    His gut screamed at him. Something was wrong. Lucy was in trouble.
    Problem was, he’d told no one about Sabrina or even where he was going when he left Jessup. What little family he had left were long used to him tossing what few possessions he owned in his duffle and leaving as abruptly as he came. Only one person knew where he was, but he trusted Lark with his life. No way would he betray him. He glanced at his watch. The call came through an hour and forty minutes ago.
    He hung up and dialed Lucy. The phone rang and rang. No answer.
    Calm down. Panic is the enemy. He took a cleansing breath and dialed a different number. This time the call was answered on the fourth ring.
    “Wander-Inn, this is Tom.”
    “Tom, it’s Michael. I need a favor.”

TWELVE
    W HEN HE WAS FINISHED, he gathered his clothes and put them back on. The blood and gore, dried stiff, abraded his skin, but he didn’t mind. He dragged Lucy to a corner of the basement and laid her out. Finding an open bottle of bleach above the washer, he washed her thoroughly.
    Once she was clean, he wrapped her in the freshly-laundered sheets he found in her dryer and concealed her beneath a pile of old boxes. She’d eventually be found, but by then the bleach would have done its job. Any DNA he might have left on her would be long gone.
    The muffled sound of Gene, still singing in the rain, drifted down the basement steps, and he sang along while he worked. He brought the chair and Lucy’s house dress back upstairs and rummaged under the sink. He found more bleach, a bottle of ammonia and a bottle of lighter fluid. He rolled up the makeshift tarp he’d laid out on the kitchen floor and placed it in a trash bag along with the dress. He poured the undiluted ammonia onto the kitchen floor and chair. While ammonia didn’t destroy DNA, any evidence gathered there would be corrupted by the chemical and rendered useless. The ammonia was strong-smelling, so he opened a few windows for ventilation. The early afternoon breeze made the chore of cleaning up his mess almost pleasant.
    Castoff was a problem, and he silently chided himself for losing control while he wiped down the walls. His actions would do nothing to eliminate the blood evidence but it didn’t concern him. He knew Lucy’s home would eventually become a crime scene but the longer things appeared normal, the better.
    Finished cleaning, he took the other bottle of bleach and the trash bag into the bathroom with him. In the shower, he washed himself with the lavender soap he’d smelled on Lucy’s skin and it made him smile. After his shower, he used the bleach to clean the tub and dumped the remainder down the drain. He added his clothing and the soap he’d used to the bag and pulled on a fresh pair of gloves.
    Wandering down the hall in a towel, he found the room he knew O’Shea slept in when he was in town. The room was sparse. The only thing that made it Michael’s was a framed photo of Frankie and his parents.
    He opened a dresser drawer and found what he was looking for. The jeans were a little long, but they’d do for what he needed. In the closet he found an old sweatshirt and pulled it on before tossing the towel he used into the bag of clothing. Down the hall, the kitchen phone began to ring. Even without the benefit of caller ID, he knew who it was.
    Michael O’Shea to the rescue.
    The idea of O’Shea as anyone’s savior made him laugh. He ignored the phone but understood what it meant. If O’Shea was worried, he’d find a way