Dark Pursuit

I wandered the aisles, trying to take it slow, appear normal, while my mind revved like an overpowered engine. My nerves tingled as I looked at all that cloth, thinking no, no, wrong, wrong. I saw cotton and polyester, all kinds of colors. Some designs with stripes, even green ones. But nothing other than the black silk would do.

It wasn’t there. That whole store, with hundreds of different designs, offering everything some seamstresscould ever want. Except the one cloth that I wanted. Needed.

The urge overpowered me, possessed me. I went home and paced the rooms, unnerved and having no idea what to do.

I found myself at the computer. All that evening I searched online for the fabric. I scoured dozens of sites, thousands of designs. The longer I looked the more desperate I became. The fabric obsessed me, taunted me, and I still didn’t know why.

And suddenly—there it was.

Black silk. Green stripes.

“Ah!” My hand flew up from the keyboard and pressed hard against the screen. My heart beat in my throat. I wanted to climb inside the monitor, curl up with that bolt of fabric. Feel it, hear the swish of it, smell it.

I was going mad.

I ordered five yards. Express delivery.

The next two days are a blur. My life felt on hold, the world stopped on its axis, waiting for the cloth to arrive.

When it came I tore into the package, shaking, petrified at what was happening to me yet helpless to stop it. At first sight of the fabric I froze, overwhelmed at being in its presence. I reached out to touch it, afraid, so afraid it would be less than my imaginings.

The cloth was silky. Cool. Utterly mesmerizing.

I balled up a corner of it and pressed it to my nose. It had a tangy, vaguely sharp smell I hadn’t expected. Exotic. Heady.

My legs trembled.

I unwrapped all five yards from the bolt and gathered them to my chest.

That night I slept with the cloth.

I told myself the next day I would be back to normal. Whatever this … thing was, it couldn’t last. I would toss the cloth in a dumpster. A few days later I’d be laughing at my own idiocy.

Morning dawned. Time came to leave for work.

I couldn’t leave the cloth.

I cut a piece of it and slipped it in my pocket.

Throughout the day whenever I was alone I pulled it out, felt it, smelled it. Luxuriated in it.

What was happening to me?

That night I cut a bigger piece. A strip about ten inches wide, running the fabric’s width of three feet. I laid it out across the kitchen table and stared at it.

This was it. What I had longed for.

Cut this way, the fabric vibrated heat. For a minute I had the crazy idea it would self-ignite, burn up right before my eyes.

The piece seemed too big to keep in my pocket. The next morning I folded it carefully and placed it in the glove compartment of my car.

There it called to me. All day as I worked. And the next, and the next. Wooing me but keeping its secrets.

One day—soon, I hoped, or I would go completely insane—it would answer my questions.

It would tell me why.

eighteen

Kaitlan pulled into her carport and shut off the engine. Her brain had stayed numb all the way home. She’d driven like a total robot.

The engine ticked as she got out of the car, purse in hand. She glanced around, half expecting Craig to jump out at her. But there was no sign of him.

Wait! If Craig was here when she’d gotten home around three o’clock, where had he left his car?

Kaitlan froze.

A narrow private road formed the Jensons’ east property line, leading to three houses about a half mile down. Craig could have parked there, out of Kaitlan’s sight. But then how would he have gotten his victim here?

Grandfather hadn’t mentioned Craig’s vehicle at all. Hadn’t he thought of it?

Kaitlan’s hope soared. This was huge. If Craig had been here when she arrived unexpectedly, where was his car?

Why hadn’t she thought of this before? It was so obvious.

If her grandfather missed it—what else had he missed? He couldn’t even possibly know if Craig was the killer.

But if he wasn’t, wouldn’t the body still be on her bed? Then what would she do?

Kaitlan tried the door. Locked. As it should be.

She pulled the key from her purse and inserted it. Pushed open the door. For a moment she stood there, listening. Feeling.

She stepped into the kitchen, her body turning to lead. Whatever she found in the next sixty seconds was going to change her life. Either she would become the most desperate actress on earth or the most desperate fugitive.

Kaitlan put her purse on the table. She took a deep breath and turned around. Walked to the doorway into the living room.

Everything looked in perfect order.

The red throw blanket—draped over the couch. Her lamp sat on its end table. The coffee table and magazines—all as she’d left them this morning.

Panic and disbelief punched her in the stomach. She sagged against the doorway, face in her hands. Maybe she was crazy. Maybe she’d come home, nauseated and tired, and imagined the whole —