Dark in Death by J.D. Robb Read Online (FREE)
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Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the dark.
The great art of writing is the art of making people real to themselves with words.
LOGAN PEARSALL SMITH
On the mega screen bloody murder played out in classic black and white for an audience of one hundred and seven. With the sharp screech of violins, violas, and cellos that number dropped by one.
Unlike the character of Marion Crane, Chanel Rylan didn’t scream or flail at the shock of violent death. In row twenty-seven in theater three of Vid Galaxy in New York City’s Times Square, she let out little more than a mouse squeak as the ice pick plunged into the back of her neck.
Her body gave one quick jerk; her hands batted at the air and up-ended the mini bucket of popcorn in her lap. Her last breath escaped like a long sigh.
She died in the dark as blood circled black down the drain on the screen.
No one noticed. With all eyes, all attention riveted to the screen, no one noticed the killer slip into the aisle and walk away from dark deeds.
When Lola Kawaski hurried back in, dropping into her aisle seat, she cursed in a whisper, “Damn it, I can’t believe I missed the big, classic scene. And I’m going to have to miss the rest. I’m kicking myself for agreeing to be on call tonight, but we’ve got an emergency coming in, so—”
In apology, she patted Chanel’s arm. The movement caused her dead friend’s body to shift, slumping against Lola. Lola’s initial amusement—leave it to an actor to go all dramatic—flipped to alarm.
Then the screaming started.
Lieutenant Eve Dallas stood over the body. Someone had dragged said body into the aisle in a useless attempt at first—or more accurately last—aid. Now the scene was totally fucked.
So was her evening at home. She’d actually walked in the door on time for once, out of the claw swipe of late February wind and into the warmth of a Summerset-free house, as Roarke’s majordomo was off on his winter vacation.
She’d even beaten Roarke home and experienced the odd and rare sensation of having the big-ass fancy house all to herself. And the cat.
She’d considered squeezing in a workout—contemplated just jogging from room to room; if she managed to hit them all that would equal a pretty damn serious workout.
Instead, she wandered into the big front parlor with its art, antiques, and rich colors. She decided she deserved a big red circle around the day on the 2061 calendar, and she put on the fire, poured a glass of wine, sat in one of the butt-cuddling chairs.
The cat sat at her feet, eyed her suspiciously.