The Fifth Victim Read Online Free PDF Page B

and the last to leave. Her dear husband knew how to suck up better than anyone she’d ever known. He was a brownnoser par excellence.
    As she strolled out into the foyer, seeking relief from the incessant chatter that had reached a deafening roar in the parlor, Cindy noticed Dr. MacNair and his wife accepting their coats from the maid. They were leaving early.
    Before she realized what she was doing, Cindy rushed toward Nina MacNair. “Would y’all mind giving me a lift into town? I have a dreadful headache and I don’t want to bother Jerry Lee. He loves these parties so.”
    “Yes, certainly.” Nina reached out and patted Cindy’s arm. “We’d be happy to drop you off at your house. And if you’d like, Galvin can give you something for your headache.”
    “Oh no, really, that won’t be necessary. I have something at home I can take.” She turned to the maid. “Would you get my coat, please? And once I’m gone, tell Mr. Todd that I wasn’t feeling well and caught a ride home with Dr. and Mrs. MacNair.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” the maid said and hurried to get Cindy’s coat.
    Half an hour later, Cindy stood outside Dillon’s apartment. She’d walked there in the freezing rain, the three blocks from her house on Chestnut Street to the two-story apartment building on Baker’s Lane. Drenched to the skin and out of breath from running up the stairs to the second floor, she punched the doorbell repeatedly. She had an hour at most. An hour to find comfort and caring before she’d have to rush home and feign sleep when Jerry Lee returned from the Uptons. With luck the party would go on until at least eleven, even if this was a Monday night.
    Dillon threw open the door and surveyed her from head to toe. “My God, sugar, come on in and get out of those wet clothes.”
    Dillon wasn’t a handsome man, but there was an inexplicable sexiness about him. He stood about six-one. Curly dark hair tumbled about his broad shoulders. And when he did nothing more than grin at her, her pussy moistened.
    Smiling, she moved past him and into his cluttered living room. Many creative people were known for being messy and disorganized. Dillon was certainly both. Newspapers and magazines lay strewn about, an empty cup rested on the edge of the coffee table, and two pairs of sneakers and dirty socks lay discarded on either end of the sofa.
    “You’re earlier than I thought,” Dillon said as he helped her off with her damp coat. “Did Jerry Lee go to sleep early tonight?”
    Cindy ran her hands up and down her arms in an effort to warm herself. “We had to go to that party at the Uptons’.”
    “So that’s why you’re wearing such a fancy dress—why you look exceptionally pretty tonight.”
    “Oh, God, don’t lie to me,” she told him. “I look like a drowned rat and we both know it.”
    “You’re beautiful, even soaking wet and with your makeup smudged.” He ran the back of his hand across her cheek. “Why don’t you go in the bedroom and strip off all those wet things.”
    She grabbed his hand. “Come with me. I don’t have long. I don’t know for sure what time he’ll get home tonight.”
    Dillon turned her hand over and kissed the center of her palm. “You go ahead and I’ll be right there. I’ll pour us a couple of drinks. Some Jack Daniels should warm you up pretty quick.”
    She didn’t want the whiskey; she wanted him. But she did as he’d requested and scurried off to his bedroom, which was as cluttered as the living room. Clothes were strewn hither and yon. A laundry basket filled with what she assumed were washed but not folded towels and underwear perched atop the chest of drawers in the corner. An unmade bed lay before her, the comforter sloping halfway onto the carpeted floor. She doubted the sheets had been changed in weeks, but she didn’t care. She’d rather share a dirty bed with Dillon than sleep on satin sheets with Jerry Lee.
    Hurriedly she stripped off her dress, then kicked off her