Her husband’s blood sprayed across Evi’s face and arms. She screamed again, but the sound seemed far in the distance, dulled by her pulse roaring in her ears.
She stumbled to the side, arms thrust up in front of her, watching in horror as Eric, his face a mask of blood, pushed forward at the assailant. The demon stepped back, letting Eric’s momentum carry him out the door. It struck Eric again, across the back, sending him sprawling face-first down the steps of the deck.
“Eric!”
And then the monster was rushing at her. For the first time, she realized what the weapon was, but immediately her brain tried to tell her it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.
She had to run. She had to get to a phone. She had to get this thing out of her house, away from her daughter. If she ran out the front door, would it follow her? If she ran across the street, would a neighbor let her in?
But the demon was on her before she could even turn to run. It hit her hard in the sternum with the hilt of the weapon, and pain exploded through her body, shutting down every other signal. She fell backward, her head bouncing hard off the floor. Her vision dimmed as if someone had thrown black lace across her eyes.
Then the assailant was on top of her, staring down at her with its sightless eyes and toothless grimace. The demon’s whispered voice was one she had heard before.
“I’m here for you, Evangeline. Aren’t you lucky now?”
It all worked out for you . . .
44
Nikki drove the Crosstown Highway for the second time that day, hoping she wasn’t making a big mistake. She felt so close to having an answer, just a piece or two away from finishing the puzzle and having the complete picture of the events that had led to Ted Duffy’s murder a quarter of a century past. Evi Burke held those pieces, the weight of them pulling on her, pressing down on her. The strain had been there in her eyes as she had looked out the window that morning.
The questionable alibis of the teenagers were the fine cracks in the time line of that day. Nikki wanted to put pressure there to see if the cracks would deepen and split apart. She had tried earlier to call Evi Burke on her cell phone. The call had gone straight to voice mail. That was fine. She didn’t want to speak to the woman on the telephone. She wanted to see her face-to-face. She wanted to do what she and Sam called “a Columbo”: Just one more question, ma’am. Just a little more pressure. Just another quarter turn of the screw that tightened the nerves . . .
And the second she thought it, she saw Jennifer Duffy in her head. She pictured Jennifer Duffy in a hospital bed with a heart monitor beeping.
Evi Burke wasn’t Jennifer Duffy. Evi Burke had fought her way through tougher times than most people could ever imagine in their worst nightmares. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t fragile in her own way. It was clear she didn’t want her past tainting the life she had now—a career she loved, a husband she loved, a beautiful little family.
It all worked out for you . . .
A faceless voice on the telephone had whispered those words, an allusion to the past. Why? It seemed everyone from the time of Ted Duffy’s death wanted those memories left in the shadows where they had been all these years. If the call was related to that part of Evi’s life, then who? Why? Why now?
Nikki turned off the highway and into the Burkes’ quiet neighborhood. With her husband home, Evi would have to feel safer than she had in the last couple of days. All the more reason for Nikki to drop by unannounced. She didn’t want the woman sleeping too soundly. She wanted her thinking about Jeremy Nilsen and the Duffy family, and whatever she knew about Ted Duffy that she had kept to herself all these years. Even if she wouldn’t answer the question tonight, the seed would be planted—but gently, just slipped under the surface; something to worry at, like a sliver just under the skin.
The lights were on in the Burkes’ living room. Softer lights illuminated the second story, glowing through the curtains. Nikki parked at the curb and went to the front door, knocking instead of ringing the doorbell. She expected Eric Burke to answer, as he had that morning. She would have to talk her way past him.
She was there to inform them personally that the suspect who had been at large was now in custody, and they had determined he was not in any way connected to Evi’s case at the Chrysalis Center. That was her in. That was her cover story. Lame, but it would get her in the door.
If anyone ever came to answer the door.
She knocked again, a little harder, and rose up on tiptoe to try to see in through the glass panes arranged in a fan shape at the top of the door. A futile effort. She could hear voices. The television, she decided as the volume rose with what sounded like a commercial: animated, rapid-fire staccato voices and a quick blast of music.
She knocked again.