Hex on the Ex (A Mind for Murder, #3)

“She’s the daughter of Herrick Schelz, a devil worshiper serving life for murder in the Indiana State Penitentiary. I saw the symbol the killer left on Laycee in a pamphlet Schelz wrote, and a copy of that pamphlet surfaced recently at a liquor store in Sherman Oaks. Dave traced Margaret Smith to an address in Bull Valley. I called your mother to ask if she knew her.”


“What the hell does all of this have to do with Gretchen?”

“Gretchen is Margaret Smith, Jarret. She’s known the symbol since childhood. Your mother confirmed Gretchen knows your garage code. I think Gretchen came here that morning to surprise you, saw Laycee in your bed, and killed her out of jealousy.”

He staggered back a step, wide-eyed. “Pratt asked me about women I’m dating. I didn’t even think to mention Gretchen. What a freak. Are you sure?”

“Sure enough to take this information to the police. I’m worried Gretch—” The front door flew open behind me.

“Liz!” Jarret lurched forward, sweeping me to the side with his hand. I stumbled off the stoop into the bushes, stunned, as Gretchen plunged a knife into Jarret’s left shoulder, ripping through his flesh. I scrambled to the pavement on my knees, grabbed at her legs, and jerked her off him. Jarret staggered back. The knife clanged to the pavement.

“Why won’t you die?” Gretchen yanked a fistful of my hair. “I stabbed you in his bed. I burned your house. What are you? Why won’t you die?”

I shoved at her chest. She lunged for my throat. Jarret wrapped his right arm around her waist, yanking her off me.

He held her mid-air, blood pouring from the slash on his shoulder. She thrashed, wild-eyed and kicking. His face blanched from pain—I knew he wouldn’t be able to hold her mid-air for long. I bent my knees, loaded my strength, and drove my fist into her stomach. The impact knocked the wind out of her. Jarret let go. Gretchen fell to the pavement, facedown and gasping.

Jarret pinned her down with his knees, blood seeping from the gaping wound on his shoulder. I ran to my car, pulled out my phone, and called 911.

“Let me go, Jarret,” Gretchen pleaded. “You love me. You’ve always loved me. I’m not going to let her have you again.”

The operator confirmed an ambulance and squad car on the way as I dashed into the house, phone to my ear. I turned on the kitchen faucet and dampened two hand towels. An unopened bottle of Jarret’s favorite scotch and two raw steaks on a broiler pan sat on the counter next to the sink. A salad bowl filled with lettuce stood beside a sliced tomato on a chopping block. Gretchen must have let herself in, and was preparing dinner for Jarret when we arrived.

Outside on the driveway, she begged Jarret to let her go, her voice so clear I realized she had heard all of Jarret’s insults and my accusations. I wrung out the towels and rushed back to Jarret.

“Don’t let her touch you. She’s not human,” Gretchen said, struggling to turn beneath the pin of Jarret’s knees as I ripped his shirt away from his wound. “Let me go. We can be together.”

“Shut up, Gretchen,” I said.

“I’ll never shut up. I’ll never stop hating you. I’ll find a way to kill you somehow. You stole my life. I’ll get vengeance. You’ll see.”

Jarret winced in pain as I gently wiped blood off the slash in the muscle curving around the top of his shoulder and arm—his pitching arm. Gretchen spewed a continuous stream of obscenities. But neither Jarret nor I spoke.

Both of us knew the damage to his shoulder would end his season, perhaps his career. I pressed the towel on the open wound to control the bleeding and used the other to wipe the sweat off his forehead. Worried he would pass out or go into shock from the loss of blood, I draped the towel around his neck to keep him cool as sirens blared from down the street.



EMTs lifted Jarret to a stretcher and took him by ambulance to Encino Medical Center. Gretchen, arrested on the scene for attempted murder, was handcuffed and put in the back of a squad car for a ride to the Van Nuys jail. I gave the remaining officers a statement and asked them to contact Carla Pratt, and then got in my car to meet Jarret at the hospital.

On my way down the hill I phoned Nick.

“Where are you?” he said. “Did you get my messages? Weisel called from the liquor store. He snapped a cell phone picture of the pamphlet woman. I e-mailed you her photo.”

“Let me guess. Short-haired brunette around my age in a green dress? Bought a bottle of scotch?”



Two hours later I waited in the Encino Medical Center Visitor’s Lounge for news on Jarret’s condition with Nick, Dave, Robin, and my parents seated in club chairs around me. Mom, still in the calypso-themed canary yellow pedal pushers and ruffled blouse she wore for Dad’s hastily canceled party, rose every five minutes to inquire at the desk about Jarret. As soon as she heard he saved my life, her attitude toward him shifted from furious back to fond, bordering on doting. His agent, Ira, paced in front of us, fielding calls from the press on his headset.

Rochelle Staab's books