Free The Kill by Jan Neuharth

four-poster bed. She kicked off her shoes, let them clunk to the floor, and bent her knees to ease her throbbing back. She inhaled deeply, let the air escape slowly. Was there a muscle in her body that didn’t ache? She stretched, wincing at the muscle spasms in both calves, the sharp pang that shot from her neck across her right shoulder. Her eyes burned with a grit that reminded her of the hot-white Iraqi sands. She rubbed her closed lids, knowing that would only make it worse.
    The knot that had hung like lead in Abigale’s stomach since landing at Andrews Air Force Base flared into a fiery cramp that almost took her breath away. She massaged the tender spot just below her breastbone, trying to ease the burn that shot up her chest. It seemed surreal, being back here. Like a time warp. Margaret’s farm, Fox Run, looked almost exactly the way she remembered it. Yet an ugly truth—murder—lurked beneath the serenity. It left a gaping hollow space where her uncle should be. She’d lived with death, witnessed it almost every day for the last five years, yet the fact that her uncle had been murdered—here—was almost beyond comprehension.
    Abigale blew out a ragged breath. How was she going to make it through this? Laying Uncle Richard to rest. Handling his affairs. Performing the role her mother would play, if she weren’t bedridden almost four thousand miles away.
    And how was she going to face Manning?

CHAPTER
21

    M argaret heard the slam of the back door. “I’m in the dining room,” she shouted in the direction of the kitchen.
    She tucked in the final fold on the last of the white linen napkins she’d arranged at the top of each Pimpernel placemat, then stepped back and surveyed the table with a critical eye. The cherry wood was badly in need of refinishing, but the gleam of the Spode china and Waterford crystal drew attention away from the sad state of the table. She nodded her approval. It would do.
    Margaret lugged the silver chest out of the bottom cabinet of the china hutch and rested it on a chair. The brass nameplate on top was tarnished and scratched, the elegantly engraved “Southwell” nearly indecipherable, but the Tiffany sterling inside was so well polished she could almost see her reflection. Margaret removed the carving knife with the hound handle and set it beside the place setting at the head of the table, then placed the fox-handled serving fork next to it.
    “Something smells good. What’re we having?”
    She turned and saw Manning standing in the doorway to the kitchen. He held a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a folded necktie in the other. The collar of his white dress shirt was unbuttoned beneath his navy blazer.
    “Pot roast.” She ran her eyes over him. “You look nice.”
    Manning extended his hand that held the tie. “I wasn’t sure about the dress code, so I brought this along in case.”
    “You’re fine as you are. It’s casual.” Margaret inspected the bouquet in his hand. There were a half-dozen or so sunflowers, accompanied by stalks of lavender and willowy branches with shiny green leaves. “Sunflowers. What an unusual choice. They’re beautiful.”
    Manning’s face reddened. “They’re Abby’s favorite. Or were, anyway.” His eyes darted toward the ceiling. “Is she upstairs?”
    “Yes.”
    His expression tightened and he glanced away, waving the flowers. “What should I do with these?”
    “There are some large vases in the cupboard in the pantry. Select one that you like. There’s a cerulean Baccarat that would complement the china nicely.”
    “All right.”
    He turned toward the kitchen.
    “Manning.”
    “Yeah?” he said, looking over his shoulder.
    “Are you okay?”
    “Why wouldn’t I be?”
    “Seeing Abigale, after all these years. Dredging up the past.”
    Manning turned away. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

CHAPTER
22

    T he mirror over the sink was clouded with steam from the shower. Abigale wiped a circle with her palm and