CHAPTER THREE

      Erin was amazed at how quickly the autopsy was performed and the body released to her for burial. She saw no reason to delay. After all, there was no other family to be considered, just her. With Detective Slade’s help and encouragement, the simple memorial services were hastily arranged and conducted late that afternoon.

      It was a perfect day for a funeral, overcast and cold, with sharp gusts of wind, which tugged at the hem of Erin’s white wool coat. By the time the small procession arrived at the cemetery, the rain had come. The sky grew ever blacker, more threatening, flapping the black canvas awning covering the grave like the wings of a giant bat.

      Erin stood at the edge of the open grave and wished she was anywhere but here. She’d written about funerals. Dozens. Usually it was the heroine’s mother she had buried in her books. But never the sister. Never had Erin imagined what it would be like to bury her own sister.

      Cold and shivering, she watched as Father Grady said the final prayer, then tossed a handful of dirt into the grave. He motioned to Erin, and she stepped forward. Unfastening her necklace, she dropped it into the grave.

      The silver cross seemed to glow with an ethereal light as it lay atop the ebony coffin. It was the last thing—the only thing—Erin could give to her sister to thwart the darkness that had tormented them both for years. Megan needed it more than Erin did now, but as Erin stood at the edge of the grave, an almost overwhelming sense of foreboding stole over her.

      As if drawn by a magnet, she turned her head and glanced over her shoulder. Through the misty veil of rain, she saw a male figure dressed all in black standing at the edge of the cemetery as if hovering on the threshold of a room he was forbidden to enter.

      The form seemed to waver in the drizzle while the mist swirled around him with an unnatural movement. Erin couldn’t see a face, but somehow his dark gaze penetrated the layers of fog as easily as a beam of concentrated light. There was something familiar about the apparition, she thought. Something…dangerous.

      Something evil.

      Erin began to shake. She struggled to look away, but his dark gaze held her imprisoned. A strange lethargy crept over her. She tried to fight it, but slowly Erin felt herself drifting away, floating on a mystical cloud that seemed to carry her to this menacing stranger. She heard a voice, a dark, persuasive voice borne by the wind. We’ve been waiting for you, it whispered. Your sister’s here, Erin. I can take you to her. Don’t let her down this time.

      A wave of dizziness washed over Erin, and a blackness so cold and so swift it seemed as if icy waters were closing over her head. She felt herself sway, and then her knees began to buckle. She was falling, plunging toward Megan’s open grave, descending toward that yawning abyss, that dark place from which there would be no return….

       Erin! Help me!

      Was that Megan’s voice that called to her? Was that Megan’s cry she heard?

      Suddenly Erin no longer had the will to fight. She closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.

      A gasp rose from the crowd. Just as she was about to pitch forward into the grave, someone grabbed her and pulled her back, with a hand that seemed capable and comforting, yet cold and dangerous. A hand that was scarred and battered, yet beautiful and strong. Erin opened her eyes and felt Detective Slade’s grip tighten on her arm.

      “Are you all right?”

      “I…felt faint,” she said weakly. His hand was still on her arm, and beneath the fabric of her coat, Erin imagined that she could feel the warmth of his hand seeping through her. Her skin tingled with awareness, with warning. Her heart began to thud against her chest as he guided her away from the grave.

      He’d turned up the collar on his black leather coat, but he didn’t have an umbrella, and his dark hair glistened with droplets of water. She’d forgotten how tall he was, how formidable he appeared. He was still wearing the dark glasses she found so daunting, but even guarded, his stare was powerful, mesmerizing, as he gazed down at her. Suddenly Erin remembered last night and how his gaze had seemed to trap her.

      “Rough day” was all he said, guiding her out of the cemetery toward the street. But somehow those two simple words conveyed everything Erin was experiencing at that moment. She wanted to cry and gave silent thanks for the mask of rain on her face.

      At the edge of the graveyard, she stopped and looked back. The tombstones blurred in the rain, creating an eerie, almost mystical illusion. Someone was watching her, she thought. Someone was watching her again, and she shuddered, a dark portent creeping over her. She looked up and found Detective Slade gazing down at her with hidden eyes.

      “What is it?” His voice held an edge, as if he knew—or sensed—what she was feeling.

      But Erin didn’t want to admit even to herself that she was suddenly, desperately afraid. She hugged her arms to her chest, then shrugged. What could she say? That her imagination was running away with her? That she was seeing monsters now, even in daylight?

      As if sensing her reluctance, Slade let the matter drop. Without another word, they began walking again. After a few moments, Erin said, “How is the investigation progressing?”

      It was his turn to shrug. “As well as can be expected.”

      “What did the autopsy report show?”

      Slade hesitated. “We can talk about that later.”

      “I want to hear it now,” Erin said, mustering her courage. She braced her shoulders as if to prove to Slade she could handle whatever he had to say. “What was the exact cause of Megan’s death, Detective? I want to know.”

      Again that odd hesitation. “There were marks on her neck.”

      “Marks? You mean she was strangled?” That would explain why there was no blood that night, Erin thought.

      Detective Slade stared straight ahead as they continued to walk. “Your sister wasn’t strangled,” he said.

      “But I thought you said—”

      “There were marks on her neck. Two puncture wounds. Almost all of Megan’s blood was drained from her body.”

      Erin staggered to a stop. A wave of horror washed over her. Slade’s hand shot out and steadied her once more, but Erin was hardly aware of it. Instead, in her mind she saw an image of Megan’s body on the ground, the smile on her lips. Erin put a hand to her mouth as her stomach churned sickeningly. “My God,” she said. “What kind of person could do that? Especially to Megan. She was so young, so beautiful….” And now she was dead. Dear God, Erin wrote about this kind of stuff. It didn’t happen in real life. Not to Megan. Please not to Megan.

      “How did he do it?’ she asked weakly.

      “We don’t know for sure.”

      “Why did he do it? What kind of monster would do such a thing?”

      Slade said nothing, but Erin barely noticed. Her mind was racing with the implications. “What if it was because of me?” she whispered. “What if this happened because of my book?”

      Slade was still holding her arm, and now his grip tightened.