Killer Image (An Allison Campbell Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page A

the Spartan porch, the table made of saw horses, and an old barn door, on which flower pots and gardening tools waited patiently. She saw the plain screen door that led into the kitchen, its frame in need of a fresh coat of paint. The expanse of brick floor, unswept, the cranky old AGA stove, the farmhouse sink, its white porcelain basin stained from years of honest use.
    Stop. Mia took a deep breath. She caught her reflection in the window—recognized the thinker’s crease in her forehead and the anxiety in her eyes. He’s not doing this to you, she thought. You are doing it to yourself.
    She said, “Tea or coffee?”
    “Tea.”
    Without waiting for an invitation, Edward took a seat at the small Formica table she’d pushed up against the far wall. Mia picked up the blue-enameled teapot and turned on the faucet. The place was small. A kitchen, bedroom, and living room downstairs and a small bedroom upstairs. The upstairs lacked heat, and, in the winter, she closed it off with a heavy tarp placed at the bottom of the steps. She could see that tarp now from her vantage point by the sink. Gray and utilitarian.
    Mia had bought this house after the accident that had killed their only daughter. Edward had been drunk. Bridget had been nineteen. Edward’s drinking had been out of control for a long time, but after the crash, Mia could no longer make excuses for the man. When he refused to get help, she filed for divorce. But she supposed she was as angry at herself as she was at Edward—for letting his problem go for so long. Bridget’s blood was on her hands, too.
    “Mia?”
    She looked down and saw the water had overflowed the pot and was running down her fingers. Damn it, Mia, focus. She turned off the faucet, poured out the excess water, and placed the teapot on the stove.
    “Mia—”
    She reached for two mugs on the same overhead shelf and fished two teabags out of a porcelain jar. She placed a teabag in each cup. Edward’s presence stirred up memories Mia hadn’t been prepared to face. She and Bridget had been close. Impossibly close for a teenage child and a parent. Bridget had been a freshman at Yale. She wanted to be a doctor. She had everything going for her. She was smart and kind and gentle—
    “Mia.”
    —and her future had been snatched away from her because this man could not say no when it came to gin. Witnesses said Bridget had argued for the keys, but Edward insisted on driving. And then the head-on collision. Maybe if his reaction timing hadn’t been impaired, the accident would have turned out differently. But instead, in the face of her loss and his obstinate refusal to accept blame, Mia left. And when she did, she left everything: her business, her house, her life. And eventually she’d come here to the rundown farmhouse, away from anyone who used to matter.
    “Mia!”
    Mia jumped. She knocked one cup to the ground. It broke. Ceramic shards shot across the floor. She looked down. Edward rose to pick up the pieces.
    “I don’t need your help.” Mia said.
    He grabbed her arm and led her to the table. “Sit. You’ll cut yourself.”
    She sat, the venom draining, suddenly feeling every one of her fifty-six years. She watched him throw away the ceramic pieces and wipe down the floor with a damp paper towel to catch any small slivers. He took another cup from the shelf and finished making tea for both of them. He placed the cups on the table and sat back down.
    He looked around. After a pause he said, “What the hell are you doing, Mia?”
    “What does it look like, Edward? I was making tea.”
    “I meant with your life. This house, your reclusiveness. It all looks like a lot of escapee nonsense.”
    His voice was not unkind, but that made it worse. She felt off-balance. He didn’t deserve an explanation. And, anyway, how to explain that here, with the quiet and the animals, she felt some semblance of peace? The expectations were clear and largely unchanging. But Edward would never