The murdered

“W ho is this?” Reva demanded again.

“Traci is dead, the caller whispered, ignoring Reva’s question. “Remember how she died?”

The image of Traci flashed into Reva’s mind. Hanging from the pole, her eyes bulging lifelessly.

Blood snaking down her jacket.

The caller gave a short, vicious laugh. “Come on, Reva, you know exactly what I mean!”

Murder! That’s what the caller meant. That Reva should be murdered, just like Traci.

Reva gripped the phone, almost frozen with fear. She was actually talking with Traci’s killer—and now the killer was after her!

“I wish I could see you right now, Reva,” the caller whispered. “You’re probably shaking, wondering where to hide.”

Without meaning to, Reva glanced at her reflection in the mirror across the room. The caller was right—she looked terrified. Pale and big-eyed and helpless.

Get a grip, she thought, scowling at herself. You’re not in danger. Not at the moment anyway.

And you’re not helpless, either.

Quickly, Reva stared down at the phone. Thank goodness for caller I.D. She yanked open the nightstand drawer, grabbed a pencil and her telephone book, and copied the caller’s number from the caller I.D. screen.

“Remember what I said, Reva,” the voice rasped. “I’ll be in touch.”

The caller hung up.

You’re not going to be in touch with anybody, Reva thought.

Smiling grimly, she punched in the number of the Shadyside Police Department.

“This is Reva Dalby,” she announced to the officer who answered. “I want to talk to Detective Blake.”

“What’s this about?” the officer asked in a bored tone.

“It’s about Traci Meecham,” Reva said. “Tell Detective Blake that I just got a call from her murderer. A threatening call.” She paused dramatically. “I also have the number the call was made from.”

Sounding more interested, the officer took the number and told Reva to wait for a call back.

Twenty minutes later, the phone rang. “Miss Dalby, this is Detective Blake. We picked up your caller. We’d like you to come down to the station and make an identification.”

“Who is it?” Reva cried. But Blake had already hung up.

Reva grabbed her coat and hurried out to her car.

A cold wind blew icy snowflakes against the windshield as she drove through the streets. Reva turned the heater up full-blast, but she couldn’t stop shivering.

She was actually going to see the murderer face to face.

Who was it?

Who?

Who wants to do the same thing to me?

Still shivering, Reva parked her car and ran into the station.

Detective Blake met her inside the door. “Thanks for coming. This way,” he told her, striding off down a brightly lit hallway, the floor covered in mud-colored linoleum.

“Who is it?” Reva asked, hurrying after him. “Where did you find him? Or her? I didn’t recognize the phone number. Was it a phone booth?”

Without answering, Blake stopped in front of a door, turned the handle, and pushed it open.

Reva felt nervous, but angry, too. Angry at having been threatened. Eager to point the finger at her caller, she took a deep breath and strode inside.

A police officer stood against one wall, sipping from a Styrofoam cup. He looked relaxed, almost bored. But his eyes never left the beat-up wooden table in the center of the room.

Reva’s eyes snapped to the person sitting at the table.

She stopped, stunned.

“You?” she gasped in surprise.

Дата добавления: 2015-07-20