"What about the parole hearing? Is that still scheduled?"
"Yes, but the trial should be over by then. If Dale doesn't get out of prison, I'll never get those diamonds. After all I've been through, I think I deserve them. Of course, whatever I get belongs to you too. Am I being too greedy?"
"No, I don't think so," he said. "But you must be honest with me now. Do you have feelings for Dale?"
"Oh, God, no," she cried. "I've always hated him, and I know how I can prove it to you."
"How?" he asked, intrigued by the sly smile of hers he found so titillating.
"As soon as Dale leads us to the diamonds, I'll let you watch me kill him."
All of his insecurities faded with that promise. She kissed him then and whispered, "I love you with all my heart. I would die
rather than hurt you. Killing Dale will prove my love, but I want proof from you as well."
"What can I do?" he asked. He wasn't a man given to poetry, but he tried to be romantic as he vowed, "If you wish me to walk
on water, I swear I'll find a way to do it. I'll do anything for you, dearest Jilly. Anything at all."
She snuggled up against him. "My sister and Avery both spoke at the last parole hearing," she said. "They're the reason he didn't get out then."
"And you want me to find a way to keep your sister and your daughter away from the trial and the parole hearing this time?
Is that what you want?"
"Darling, I don't want you to just keep them away. I want you to make it impossible for them to testify. I want you to kill them."
Chapter 7
Carrie woke up in a cold sweat. The nightmare had consumed her, terrified her. Trembling like a child, she wrapped
herself in the down comforter and tried to calm her racing heartbeat. She felt as if she were having a heart attack. She put her hand to her chest and took a couple of deep breaths. The nightmare had been so real. My God, what had brought that on? She hadn't thought about Jilly in years. Why was her sister suddenly tormenting her sleep again?
Maybe she was just overly tired. Yes, that was it, she thought, latching onto the possibility. It made sense, didn't it? She had been working seventy-, eighty-hour weeks for the past two months, firming up and then nailing the incredibly lucrative Bliss account. The contracts were all signed and delivered, and now that she could finally slow the pace, her overloaded brain had simply had a minor meltdown.
Rolling onto her back, she closed her eyes against the piercing sunlight streaming in between the partially opened drapes and tried to remember some of the yoga exercises Avery had taught her. Take deep, cleansing breaths. She remembered that much. Clear the mind and concentrate on relaxing every muscle of the body. Okay, it was coming back to her. First the toes. Then the legs. That's it, she thought. Now relax, damn it.
It wasn't working. Anxiety, like the boogeyman hiding in the closet, was still lurking, waiting to pounce.
For heaven's sake, it was just a nightmare. Vivid as hell, but still not real, so stop freaking out.
Carrie wished Valium were still in vogue. She would have taken a couple to soothe her nerves. Then she realized she was
calming down. Her heart no longer felt as though it were trying to leap out of her chest like one of those creatures in Alien.
What she needed was a good long shower. Carrie threw the covers off and sat up. What time was it? Did the sun come up brighter here in the mountains than in L.A.? Of course it did, because there wasn't any smog.
Coffee, she thought. I'll ring for coffee. The caffeine will dear the fog in my head, and I'll be able to start thinking like a human being again.
Carrie was swinging her legs over the side of the bed when she saw them. There, pointed toward her on the nightstand, was a
pair of shiny steel-bladed scissors. She froze, the scream lodged in her throat. She couldn't make herself look away, couldn't
make the scissors disappear.
Her heart was slamming against her rib cage again. Could a person die of fright? Was this some kind of a sick joke? No.
Whoever had put the scissors there couldn't possibly know about her nightmare. Think, damn it. Try to think.
Were they real? Carrie tentatively reached out to touch them, thinking she was having some kind of hallucination. When her fingers touched the hard, cold steel handle, she whimpered. Son of a bitch, they were real.
There had to be a reasonable explanation. Maybe the scissors had been there on the nightstand the night before, and while she hadn't consciously noticed, her subconscious had picked up on them. The possibility sounded desperate, but she clung to it. Then she spotted the yellow, invitation-sized envelope with her name handwritten in beautiful script propped up against the lamp. She was positive it hadn't been there the night before. Her hand trembled as she picked it up and opened it. The stationery was expensive, but there wasn't-a Utopia seal or logo printed on it, or a return address.
"What the hell is going on?" she whispered. And then she pulled the two sheets out, unfolded them, and read the note.
Carrie:
Did you mourn me when you heard I died in that car crash so many years ago? Or did you celebrate? You always
believed you were so superior. I was just a stupid girl. Do you remember how you called me that? I've never forgotten. Your biggest problem was that you always underestimated me. Always. Surely you recall how I so loved to get even.
That glorious day has finally arrived, and now you're right where I want you to be.
The house is wired, Carrie, and there isn't any way out. If you open a window or an outside door… boom. A simple
push of a button and the house will disintegrate. Do you wonder how long I'll wait?
Tick. Tick. Are you scared?
Shall I tell you how I plotted and planned? I began by finding the man of my dreams. He loves me, of course, but then
they all do, don't they? This one is very special. A perfectionist, actually. His name is Monk, and when I first seduced him,
I must say he was terribly set in his ways. He's a hitman, my hit man, though he prefers to be called a professional.
He does whatever I ask him to do, and in return I've taught him how to have fun with his job. He's a proud man, proud of what he does, and he's careful and methodical, and so he won't let me make any mistakes. In the past, he only took on one job at a time, but I've convinced him to reach for bigger and better. He'd already contracted to blow up the house. It just took a little more planning to kill a few inconsequential women at the same time.
You know why you must die. You stole my dream from me and gave it away. You took my child from me too, and you turned her against me. Those are just two reasons, Carrie, but when all is said and done, your biggest sin is that you have made me unhappy.
Jilly
P.S. Don't worry about Avery. I'm going to take care of her too.
Carrie screamed once and began to sob. She was terrified. Shaking, she leapt from the bed and ran to the sliding glass doors.
She grabbed a fistful of the drapes, ripped them out of her way, and looked outside. Then down. She saw the blinking red light protruding from the explosives, as evil and horrific as the devil's eye, and shouted, "Oh, God, oh, God…"
She ran for the bedroom door, tripped over her shoes, and slammed her right foot into the bedpost. Pain shot up her calf.
Cursing, she continued on. She stopped short in the hallway just outside her door and called out, "Is anyone there?"
Nothing. Not a sound. Too late, she realized she should have grabbed the scissors to use as a weapon just in case someone had been waiting, but Jilly had touched those scissors. Jilly, who had written the horrific, gleeful letter. Jilly, the psycho.