Free Fatal Identity by Joanne Fluke

shivered and turned to walk slowly back to the house. She wondered why Sam had told her to be patient. It didn’t make any sense at all.
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    The only light in the house came from the husband’s bedroom window. It cast a gold rectangle on the surface of the pool, and he shuddered. He couldn’t think about her now. There was work to be done. The evil red was hiding somewhere here in the darkness, and it was his duty to ferret it out and destroy it.
    No rest for the wicked . The Red Lady had told him that, and then she’d laughed. And you’re a very wicked boy, aren’t you, Jimmy? He’d nodded. That was what she expected. And then she’d laughed again. That’s why Uncle Gene came to see you. He adores wicked little boys.
    He shuddered again, pushing back the memory of sweat-soaked sheets and nasty sounds in the night. It was over. He was here. The Red Lady could no longer hurt him with the Uncles. That chapter in his life was closed. The final word had been written. The Red Lady was neutralized, and he would never be forced to endure another Uncle.
    His ears were alert for any sound as his eyes searched the familiar shadows. There was no longer any red in the pool. It had been drained and filled with fresh water. But this red gave off an almost palpable scent, hot and angry and violent. It was here somewhere. He had to find it.
    The bougainvillea was flowering but its blossoms were orange. There was no danger in orange. And the night-blooming jasmine had white flowers. No danger there, either. The rose garden was neutralized. He’d seen to that right after the housekeeper and the children had left, digging out the roots of the American Beauty Rose and tossing them in the Dumpster at the bottom of the hill.
    Could his instincts be wrong? He wrinkled his nose and sniffed the air again. Damp and dark, with a hint of jasmine. And then he smelled it again, a faint trace of red that tickled his nostrils with a scorching, metallic odor.
    He sniffed his way across the patio, to the potted palms at the end. And then he saw it, a shiny red matchbook left carelessly on the arm of the lounge chair. Who had left it there? Not the housekeeper. And certainly not the children. A repairman perhaps, or one of the gardening crew. It really didn’t matter. He had found the red, and now he could neutralize it.
    He approached slowly, stepping carefully over the red mist that rose around his ankles. His mind was filled with thoughts of destruction. Which method should he use? Which ancient element would give him the power to destroy the evil red?
    Earth, air, fire, and water. He would use fire, of course. He pulled out the matches he carried in his pocket, the matches from her wedding. White matches with gold tips in a white satin box. The gold writing on the cover spelled out their names, Brad and Mercedes, September twentieth. Nine, two, zero. It was the combination for the gate, the one the husband had thought was so clever.
    He glanced down at the matchbox and frowned. They had been kept in a large white basket on the bar at the reception. Although he didn’t smoke, he’d taken several for just this purpose.
    Even though the matches were over two years old, he was certain they would work. She had always bought quality goods. But the red mist was rising up toward his knees, and he had to hurry.
    He used a towel that had been left on the chair to flick the red matchbook from its hateful resting place. Then he opened his pure white matchbox, took out a match, and struck it.
    The flame was a bright flicker in the darkness as he dropped to his knees and brought the point of fire to the edge of the evil red matchbook. It was a bit like bringing coals to Newcastle, and he would have smiled if he’d been able.
    The red matchbook smoldered, the cover was flame resistant. For a moment, he thought he might have to light a second white match, but just as he was about to strike the second match,