Dying to Kill (Angel Delaney Mysteries Book #2) Read Online Free PDF Page A

walk that led to the front of the house and headed toward the side porch and Candace.
    “Thank you for coming.” Candace’s gaze flickered over Angel and darted to the open door of the house and back.
    “Are you okay?” Angel looked the woman over for signs of injury. There were none—at least not on her face. “Did he hurt you?”
    She shook her head. “No. He’s been good for the last few weeks. He . . .”
    Candace crumpled, and Angel hurried to her side, intent on catching her before she fell. She helped the woman back into the chair. “What’s wrong? Has he hurt the children?” Angel looked around, her mind conjuring up images of a murder-suicide.
    Candace shook her head and lifted her haunted gaze to Angel’s. “He’s in there.” She pointed to the door. “In the living room.”
    Something about her expression and the way she moved set Angel’s stomach on edge. “What happened?”
    “I don’t know. I went shopping and picked the kids up from school. When I got here, I found him right where I’d left him, in front of the television set. He’d stayed home today to watch a game. The Mariners were playing Oakland. That’s where he’s from, Oakland. Only when I came back, he . . .” She gasped and covered her mouth with a closed fist.
    “He’s inside?”
    She hauled in a deep breath and nodded. “There was a gun in his hand, one from his collection. He . . . he . . .” She stared at her hands. “He shot himself.”
    Angel stopped breathing. She leaned against the porch railing to put her thoughts in order. The porch was one of those wide, wraparound types with plenty of room for sitting. The floors and walls were painted white, now muddied by her own footprints leading from the rain-soaked driveway.
    A porch swing creaked back and forth as the wind swirled around them. Crisp, clean cushions in a tropical print adorned the pristine white wicker furniture. Pages of a Woman’s Day magazine flipped up and fluttered on the glass-covered coffee table. An assortment of plants finished off the scene. The place could have been featured in Better Homes and Gardens —certainly not the scene of a suicide.
    Angel pocketed her hands and hauled in a deep breath, wishing she hadn’t agreed to come. The last thing she wanted to do was walk into that house, but she had to, and when she’d seen Jenkins for herself, she’d call dispatch. This was the part she’d hated most about being a police officer—looking at death. It reminded her how fleeting life could be. How a bullet to the head had stopped her partner in her tracks. How a twelve-year-old boy had died in her arms.
    Stop thinking about it. Angel ordered the images away and stepped closer to the door.
    “I have to take a look,” Angel heard herself saying. Blood pounded in her ears. Her stomach knotted as she steeled herself and headed for the open doorway.
    “Wait,” Candace ordered. “Take your shoes off. Please.” Her tone softened. “It’s a house rule. He hates it when the floor is dirty.”
    The man is dead. I doubt he cares . Angel kept her thoughts to herself. The woman was obviously in shock. A dirty floor was theleast of her worries, but Angel obliged, leaving the dazed woman on the porch alone. She slipped out of her loafers and set them just inside the door on a rug apparently placed there for that purpose. The rug held a pair of man-sized work boots, which she surmised belonged to Phillip, along with several pairs of children’s shoes.
    Not certain as to why, she tiptoed across the highly polished white linoleum floor, noticing the immaculate kitchen and the gleaming counters. When she reached the center of the room, Phillip Jenkins came into view. She stopped, frozen in place.
    Phillip Jenkins sat in his brown leather recliner with his stocking feet up and head back, looking as though he’d fallen asleep. A bowl half filled with popcorn and a can of beer sat on the end table to his right. A gun hung from his left