Sunken Graves by Alan Lee (thriller book recommendations .txt) 📕

armored. Even still, he was surprised to see tears in Francis’ eyes. Francis cleared his throat and said, “I won’t and can’t help the police apprehend Craig’s killer. Nor can I help you with your current charges. But I feel compelled to somehow…honor Craig’s death. Here’s the best I can do—Peter intends to propose to Ms. Hathaway. Tonight, at the Academy’s holiday gala. It’s absurd and misguided, I know, but he’s increasingly… She has broken his mind, put it that way. You can use your imagination on how he’ll endure her rejection.”

“He’ll kill her,” said Jennings.

“He might. Unless he’s stopped.”

“Daisy isn’t going to the party.”

“Are you positive?”

Jennings’ reply died on his lips. He’d called Daisy twice, both times leaving messages. He’d assumed she was packing, or maybe she’d gone into work, and he was on his way to her house now. But what if…?

What if he was too late?

Francis nodded. “Good luck, Daniel.” He turned on his heel and walked to the sedan.

Jennings got to his car first and gunned the engine.

56

Hathaway’s red Lexus was in her driveway. A good sign or a bad sign, Jennings didn’t know. He parked on the street, refusing to let a horror shop of images gain advantage over his self-control.

Hathaway is fine. She has to be.

He peered through the dark kitchen window—vacant. Without knocking, he tried the front door, found it open, and pushed in. He carried his grandfather’s stunted shotgun and he cleared the room. Closed the door and waited, listening.

The black house emanated silence, accusatory and loud in his ears. He flipped the light switch. On the table, Hathaway’s keys.

Jennings knew the place was lifeless. She wasn’t here but he verified. Room by room upstairs, turning on lights and ready to fire at a hairy giant. His footsteps squeaked on the hardwood, announcing him throughout. He dreaded finding a dead body in her bed but it was empty. Her purse lay on the nightstand.

A cold shiver prickled his skin. She wouldn’t have left the house voluntarily without her purse.

Jennings flicked on the basement lights and descended the stairs. His finger was off the trigger—he felt itchy, ready to shoot at shadows, didn’t trust his reflexes.

He’d met Daisy’s fiancé Byron once and recognized him on the couch. His head rested on a pillow and blankets were piled near his feet, like he’d used the couch as a bed.

A big tuna hook protruded from Byron’s neck. The point had been driven through the man’s throat and into cushions underneath. A bib of dried blood had soaked Byron’s shirt, the couch, the carpet. His body was desiccated from blood loss. Eyes wild and turned upward, looking for eternity.

The hook had ripped through his jugular, killing Byron within seconds. He’d probably been asleep and never knew what happened. The amount of strength required to punch through a trachea was hideous to consider.

Peter intends to propose to Ms. Hathaway. Tonight, at the Academy’s holiday gala.

She has broken his mind.

Jennings bent over and vomited the remains of his lunch. He let go of the shotgun with one hand, the other searching his pocket for a phone. But he didn’t have one. He raised up and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Ran upstairs and grabbed the phone off the wall, a landline. It produced no tone, maybe never activated, maybe the line was cut.

Hands shaking, he looked at his watch; the Christmas party was starting.

57

Daisy Hathaway battled memories of waking. Distant confusion and fear, dreams vanishing when reached for, a mist.

When she surfaced for good, she felt like a swimmer who’d been struggling to breathe for hours; her oxygen out of reach and now it came in a trickle. She was groggy and disoriented from the effort.

She was in a bed. Good—she’d never been more exhausted. A dark room, a lamp burning. Noise from somewhere.

Her eyes tried to close but she fought them. She needed her phone, that’s what she needed. Reaching for the nightstand, her fingers knocked off a bag of syringes and three glass vials, which thumped softly onto her rug.

Frustrating. She rolled to her side, peering over the bed. Frowned. Not her rug. Not her nightstand.

What was the noise? Music. Music and people somewhere below.

She sat up and her vision swam sideways. Her stomach revolted and she groaned and collapsed backward onto the pillow.

I’m naked, she thought, and she was. An abstract notion that should matter but didn’t. She couldn’t force facts to take on importance.

Sat up again. Still dizzy and now her head ached, but she refused to stay down.

She swung her legs over the mattress. Scooted to the edge, closing her eyes and the room played tricks. She stood and her muscles failed, operating without power. “Oh!” The sheets wrapped around her and she slumped to the floor in a white cocoon.

She was pushing herself upright when a man stumped in. A big bearded man, but his face blurred.

“She’s, she’s awake! Oh no, oh no, she shouldn’t, she shouldn’t move.”

A little girl wandered in. She pushed the big man.

“Daddy says she’s sick. Pick her up but don’t touch her.”

Hathaway couldn’t make out details. Couldn’t make sense.

The big man scooped Hathaway, sheets and all. His eyes were clenched tight, not looking, and he was biting his tongue like a little boy concentrating. He laid her, as gently as if she was a baby, back on the king mattress and turned away. “Okay. Okay I did it.”

“How do you feel?” said the girl.

“Mmm,” said Hathaway. “I don’t know.”

Sounded like, Mahdunoh.

“There’s water on the other side. The bathroom door’s there.”

“Thank you.” Han’yew.

“Daddy says the medicine should have worked. You’re healed now. If you feel better, you’re supposed to get dressed and go downstairs.”

“Get dressed?”

“He bought a dress. It’s in the bathroom.”

“Where am I?” Hathaway felt dreamy and awkward, talking to the strange girl.

“At the Christmas party.”

“Okay.” That made sense. Maybe. A little. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’m Ann. Ann Lynch. This is Homer. We’re in the next room watching Anne of Green Gables. Homer is