Читать книгу The Dying Game - Beverly Barton - Страница 2

After he unlocked the backdoor and eased it open carefully, he stepped inside, and shut the door behind him. Quietly.

Listening for any sound to indicate that his entrance might have alerted her to his presence, he placed the axe against the wall, then patted his soggy jacket pocket. Ah, yes, it was still there, coated with raindrops, but otherwise unharmed. He removed the long-stemmed pink rosebud, then took the tiny key-ring flashlight from his other jacket pocket and used it to search the room. Taking hesitant steps, not wanting to bump into anything and make a noise, he paused as he passed the kitchen table and laid the rose there for safekeeping. He would need it later. A tribute. One lovely flower for another.

He felt inside his pants pocket, checking on the small digital camera. An important part of the game was photographing the kill.

The house was middle-of-the-night quiet…. Sonya was probably sound asleep. She had made this almost too easy for him, as if she were asking for it. But she would never suspect a mysterious stranger would use the key she thought was so cleverly hidden to enter her home.

In the dead of night.

With the intention of killing her…