Echoes in Death by J.D. Robb Read Online (FREE)
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About the Author
J.D. Robb is the pseudonym for the New York Times bestselling author of more than two hundred novels, including the futuristic suspense In Death series. There are more than five hundred million copies of the author’s books in print.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
—Alfred, Lord Tennyson
A sad tale’s best for winter.
Was she dead?
She felt like a ghost, untethered and insubstantial.
Was she floating?
Everything around her seemed blurred, faded, and unimportant. Maybe she was blurred, faded, and unimportant while the world moved around her full of color she couldn’t see, sound she couldn’t hear.
If so, death was the same as life. What difference did it make, really? Unless … unless. Could death be a kind of freedom?
But freedom from what?
Something, something scraped like tiny fingernails on the edges of her mind—a need to run, to hide. But why? Why?
What was the point of it all? What would death need to hide from? The dead could sleep, couldn’t they? Just sleep, sleep, sleep.
And yet, she felt as if she’d just woken, still groggy and vague.
She wandered. Puzzled, yes, but detached, and wondering if she’d reached heaven or hell. There was something oddly familiar about the faded colors and blurry shapes here. Colors suddenly so strong they hurt her eyes, shapes so sharp they might slice and gash.
Then they faded and blurred again, and there was comfort in that. Odd, quiet comfort.
But … she caught a scent, yes, yes, the rich and funereal scent of lilies. Blood. Lilies and blood, surely that meant death.
She should just lie down, lie down and sleep. Lie down and just go away. Surely someone would come tell her where to go next, what to do next. An angel. Or a devil.
Because the idea of either—the image that flashed in her mind that was somehow both—made her shudder, she didn’t lie down. Could the dead fear?
She paused when she came to a door, stared at it. Out or in? In or out? Did it matter?
She saw a hand reach for the knob. Was it her hand? Something was wrong with it. Blood and lilies. Something was wrong with the knob. It moved, sneaking just out of reach, right, left, up, down.
A kind of game, she thought, smiling a little. She would play.
The hand reached for the knob, drew back. Reached again, swept right, then left. Then closed around the sneaky knob. So she laughed in a sound that was thin and tinny and very, very far away.
In or out, out or in.
The door opened; she walked through.