Waking Nightmare Read Online Free PDF Page A

and throwing me to the floor. And then he started hitting me.” Her fist clenched, and pounded lightly in her lap to punctuate her words. “Over and over and over.”
    The bruises on her face were neon reminders of her ordeal. From the pictures they’d seen earlier, he knew they were the least of her injuries.
    “Why don’t you bring Barbara something to drink? A water or iced tea.” Ryne directed the words toward Nancy Billings without ever looking away from the younger woman. It was rare for him to conduct an interview with another family member present, but Barbara had flatly refused to meet with them alone. When the older woman moved to obey, he said, “Did you notice anything missing from the kitchen before you tried running? Anything out of place?”
    The question seemed to puzzle Barbara. She frowned, shook her head. “I wasn’t taking inventory. I was looking around for a way out, a way to . . .” Her words stopped abruptly, as if realization had just slammed into her. “The knives were gone.”
    He exchanged a glance with Abbie.
    “I keep a cutlery set on the counter. When I was screaming, I looked for the knives, for something to defend myself with, and they were gone.”
    Which meant the attacker had probably been inside before the woman came home, Ryne thought grimly. “Where else did he hit you? How many times?”
    “The . . . the face, mostly.” Her mother had reentered the room with a glass of iced tea, which she pressed into her daughter’s hands. “And the stomach, too, but mostly the face. I lost count of how often.”
    “Were you resisting?”
    Her nod was jerky. “At first. I was struggling like a wild thing, trying to slug him, scratching and kicking.”
    “Do you think you might have marked him? Scratched him maybe?” In her earlier statement she’d described the man as covered completely in black. Long-sleeved black shirt, gloves, black jeans, and tennis shoes. With no bare skin showing, the chance of him sustaining an injury from a scratch would be slight.
    “I don’t think so.” The glass was clutched tightly in the woman’s hands, and she looked down at its contents. “He had a face mask on with slits for the eyes, nose, and mouth. And he wore gloves. I would never be able to identify him.”
    “No. But maybe you remember other details. His height, his build . . .” Billings was shaking her head before he finished the statement.
    “I don’t know. I’d just be guessing. I’m not good at that kind of thing anytime, and I wasn’t thinking clearly. I just don’t know.”
    “When you were fighting with him in the dining area, how much taller than you did he seem?” Abbie asked.
    Billings shrugged, sending her a helpless look. “It was like my mind shut down and all I could do was react. And after he slugged me, I was kind of out of it. I felt a needle jabbing into my arm, and things are hazy after that.”
    Abbie reached out, covered Barbara’s clenched fist with her hand. “That’s understandable. Basic survival instinct kicking in. And whatever he gave you was designed to leave you foggy.”
    “Try thinking back again to when you first saw him,” Ryne suggested. “Do you have anything hanging on the wall he was leaning against?”
    Her brow furrowed. “Sure. Some framed antique prints of early 1800 Savannah. And a shelf with some old tins.”
    “Which was he closest to?”
    Barbara sent a puzzled look from Ryne to Abbie. “The shelf of tins.”
    “Where was his head in comparison with the shelf when he was leaning against that wall? Above the shelf? Below it? Even with it?”
    Understanding dawned in the woman’s expression. “Below it. The shelf is six feet from the floor?” Her gaze swung to her mother, who nodded. “We hung it when I moved in. Took us forever to get it straight.” She swallowed, looked away. “The top of his head was about five inches or so below the shelf.”
    The rise in inflection at the end of the sentence was more question