Читать книгу Secrets In Texas - Carrie Weaver - Страница 8

PROLOGUE

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ANGEL OPENED HER eyes, trying to focus. What started as a fuzzy recollection of violence morphed into full-blown terror.

She stifled a whimper as she rolled onto her stomach.

Must be quiet. She knew her survival depended upon it.

Drawing her knees beneath her, she bit her lip as her legs slid in opposite directions. It was like a grotesque combination of Twister and Slip ’N Slide. Only the splotches were red instead of an assortment of colors, and the liquid was too slimy for water.

It was blood. Hers? His?

Her knees stabilized, gaining traction. Slowly, deliberately, she placed a palm on the once-pristine tile floor. Then she put her other hand next to it.

Sweat rolled down her face. This should have been so simple.

But nothing had been simple for a long time.

She bit back a hysterical chuckle.

Must be quiet.

By slowly tilting her head, she was able to survey much of the kitchen peripherally without expending precious energy.

Kent wasn’t in the room.

She had already registered that fact on a subconscious level, but caution had served her well in the past. Otherwise she’d be dead.

Inching forward, she focused solely on the cordless phone that had skittered beneath the table. Frowning, she tried to remember holding it, making a call.

But it was like a recurring nightmare. The phone was just out of her reach. And so was the memory.

Angel smiled grimly.

The phone might be out of reach, but the butcher knife wasn’t. It was a foot or two away, probably dropped in haste.

She forced back the hot saliva pooling on her tongue as she moved forward and grasped the handle. It was slick with blood from hilt to tip. The blade was coated with the stuff. And she was pretty sure it was her own.

Bones crunched. Pain radiated up her arm. The knife dropped from her numb fingers.

It took precious seconds for reality to register. A size-twelve work boot pinned her wrist to the floor. Jeans brushed the tips of the brown boots, jeans she’d laundered so carefully earlier that morning.

Angel’s scalp burned as her head was jerked backward. Her long, dark hair had once been her pride and joy. Now it was simply a handy leash, snarled in Kent’s fist, as he forced her to look evil in the face.

She struggled to get away, an effort so ineffectual it made him smile. A cold, triumphant smile that told her she would die today.

The sound of splintering wood barely penetrated, as did the shout to freeze.

That confused Angel. It was a bright, beautiful Sunday afternoon. No frost or snow on the ground.

But something about that weather report seemed to enrage Kent even more. Or maybe it was the jumble of DPS officers arriving uninvited into his home.

He glanced at the cordless phone lying a few feet away. Fury burned in his eyes.

“Bitch.” He swung her just far enough away so he could reach the knife and still keep her within his grasp.

She saw the knife arc into the air, then sweep toward her.

Waited for the fatal thrust that never came.

Flinched as shots echoed in her sunny kitchen.

Stumbled to the floor, still tethered to Kent. Saw him writhe once, twitch, and then lay still.

Sighed when her hair was cut from Kent’s grip. And focused on the hank clutched in her husband’s fist.

Even in death, Kent had refused to let her go.

Secrets In Texas

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