Читать книгу Poisoned Tarts - G. A. McKevett - Страница 4

Savannah looked at the “wound,” the deep hole in the chest through which the wooden stake had been thrust. Reaching out, she touched the darkened area next to the wood, then looked at her fingertip. It was dried paint. “This is a dummy,” she said.

“No! Not that one!” Bunny cried. “It’s him!” She pointed to the male in the adjacent coffin.

But Savannah was already looking at the male figure, her heart in her throat. Even in this dim light, she could see the difference in this body and the female’s. The features were far finer, more realistic. The hair was real, not a phony wig. The hands, the fingers, and the nails were all too beautifully detailed to be fake.

As before, she dabbed her finger into the dark area around the stake, and this time, she felt the telltale wetness.

Blood.

The real thing…