Shadowfires Read Online Free PDF

happened.”
    “Lock the door,” she said.
    “It's okay,” he said, leading her out of the foyer.
    She stopped and refused to move. “Lock the door,” she insisted.
    Puzzled, he went back and locked it.
    She took the pistol from the foyer and carried it with her.
Something was wrong, something more than Eric's death, but Ben did not understand what it was.
    The living room was shrouded in deep shadows, for she had drawn
all the drapes. That was distinctly odd. Ordinarily she loved the sun
and reveled in its warm caress with the languid pleasure of a cat
sunning on a windowsill. Me had never seen the drapes drawn in this
house until now.
    “Leave them closed,” Rachael said when Ben started to unveil the
windows.
    She switched on a single lamp and sat in its amber glow, in the
corner of a peach-colored sofa. The room was very modern, all in
shades of peach and white with dark blue accents, polished bronze
lamps, and a bronze-and-glass coffee table. In her blue robe she was
in harmony with the decor.
    She put the pistol on the table beside the lamp. Near to hand.
    Ben retrieved her champagne and chocolate from the bathroom and
brought them to her. In the kitchen, he got another cold split of
champagne and a glass for himself.
    When he joined her on the living-room sofa, she said, “It
doesn't seem right. The champagne and chocolate, I mean. It looks as if I'm
celebrating his death.”
    “Considering what a bastard he was to you, perhaps a celebration
would be justified.”
    She shook her head adamantly. “No. Death is never a cause for
celebration, Benny. No matter what the circumstances. Never.”
    But she unconsciously ran her fingertips back and forth along the
pale, pencil-thin, barely visible three-inch scar that followed the
edge of her delicate jawline on the right side of her face. A year
ago, in one of his nastier moods, Eric had thrown a glass of Scotch
at her. It had missed, hitting the wall and shattering, but a sharp
fragment had caught her on the rebound, slicing her cheek, requiring
fifteen expertly sewn little stitches to avoid a prominent scar. That
was the day she finally walked out on him. Eric would never hurt her
again. She had to be relieved by his death even if only on a
subconscious level.
    Pausing now and then to sip champagne, she told Ben about this
morning's meeting in the attorney's office and about the subsequent
altercation on the sidewalk when Eric took her by the arm and seemed
on the verge of violence. She recounted the accident and the hideous
condition of the corpse in vivid detail, as if she had to put every
terrible, bloody image into words in order to be free of it. She told
him about making the funeral arrangements as well, and as she spoke,
her shaky hands gradually grew steadier.
    He sat close, turned sideways to face her, with one hand on her
shoulder. Sometimes he moved his hand to gently massage her neck or
to stroke her copper-brown hair.
    “Thirty million dollars,” he said when she had finished, shaking
his head at the irony of her getting everything when she had been
willing to settle for so little.
    “I don't really want it,” she said. “I've half a mind to give it
away. A large part of it, anyway.”
    “It's yours to do with as you wish,” he said. “But don't make any
decisions now that you'd regret later.”
    She looked down into the champagne glass that she held in both
hands. Frowning worriedly, she said, “Of course, he'd be furious if I gave it away.”
    “Who?”
    “Eric,” she said softly.
    Ben thought it odd that she should be concerned about Eric's disapproval. Obviously she was still shaken by events and not yet quite herself. “Give yourself time to adjust to the circumstances.”
    She sighed and nodded. “What time is it?”
    He looked at his watch. “Ten minutes till seven.”
    “I called a lot of people earlier this afternoon and told them
what happened, let them know about the funeral. But there must be
thirty or forty more to get