The Last Victim Read Online Free PDF Page A

Shell,” Bridget said, stopping in front of the funeral home’s main entrance. With a sigh, she shut off the ignition, then handed the keys to her. “I don’t know why I’ve been so secretive about this. It’s just that Brad didn’t want me rescheduling a lot of commitments for this personal thing—so I’m doing it on the sly.”
    “Who died?” Shelley asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
    “An old high school friend,” Bridget said, soberly. “I haven’t seen her in twenty years.”
    “She was pretty young,” Shelley remarked.
    Bridget gazed out at the funeral home. “She was living in Seattle. Apparently, a few days ago, she went to the beach in the middle of the night, sat down on a park bench, and shot herself in the head.”

CHAPTER 3
    Bridget leaned over the sink in the ladies’ room at Shorewood Funeral Home. She’d gone directly to the lavatory without stopping by the viewing area. She knew where the restrooms were in Shorewood Funeral Home. She’d been there before.
    Her hands still felt grimy from changing the tire. The Wet Ones hadn’t done the trick. She needed soap and water. She also needed to be alone for a minute.
    As she stood in front of the mirror, drying off her hands with a paper towel, Bridget started to cry. She couldn’t help it. Olivia’s death had brought back all these old feelings.
    She and Brad had grown up not far from here, in the little town of McLaren. Bridget knew this funeral home, because her mother’s wake had been held here. With the flood of memories, Bridget should have expected a few tears to escape.
    Olivia had been in the same circle of friends with Brad and Bridget during high school. She’d been the party girl, the daring one. Bridget lost track of how many times she’d seen Olivia drunk. She’d even held back Olivia’s hair for her on one occasion while Olivia threw up. But the very next day, Olivia—as always—was ready to party again. She was crude and funny and uninhibited.
    It was hard to imagine Olivia committing suicide.
    Then again, Bridget hadn’t seen Olivia since the summer after graduation. The Corrigans moved sixty miles away to Portland—just after Bridget and Brad had started college. They’d always been reluctant to return. They’d lost touch—almost on purpose—with their former high school friends.
    Bridget understood why Brad didn’t want to go to this memorial—and why he didn’t want her attending it. “What’s past is past,” he’d said. “I’ve put that chapter of our lives behind me. You should too.”
    Still, she’d needed to come. And now that she was here, Bridget wondered if any of the old gang would show up.
    She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. After fixing her makeup, Bridget stepped out of the lavatory and started toward the wake area.
    The viewing room was full of floral arrangements, strategically placed around the Mission-style furniture. The polished mahogany casket at the end of the room was closed. Understandable, since Olivia was supposed to have shot herself in the head. About forty people stood around the room.
    Bridget spotted Olivia’s mother, a slightly dowdy, dishwater blonde who showed all the traces of having been very pretty once. Bridget remembered Mrs. Rankin just turning that corner to frumpiness when Olivia was in high school—around the time Mr. Rankin packed his bags and disappeared. In Olivia’s obituary, Mr. Rankin wasn’t even mentioned.
    Mrs. Rankin caught her staring. “Bridget?” she said. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she gave her a pale smile. “Bridget Corrigan?”
    Bridget stepped up to Olivia’s mother and shook her hand. Then she placed her other hand over Mrs. Rankin’s.
    “That’s the double handshake.” Brad had taught her a few weeks ago how to greet different people at rallies. “The double handshake is for when you want to show some extra warmth or empathy. . . .” At the time, Bridget thought her brother was a major-league political phony for