that wasn’t the worst. On the walls red handprints, arranged much like a kindergarten fingerpaint project, covered the white sheetrock.
“No-o-o.”
Early mornings had always been Mitch’s favorite part of the day—a time when he could reflect on God’s promises. This morning, though, he couldn’t turn past the page in his Bible with the passage he’d underlined a month ago when C.J. broke their engagement.
Do not be yoked together with unbelievers.
How many times had he read that in the past few weeks? He’d known what the Bible said. Even Pastor Donald had cautioned him when he started dating C.J., but he thought he could change her. He should have listened and backed away before he fell in love. Now he was suffering the consequences.
His gaze drifted downward. What does a believer have in common with an unbeliever?
The words tore at Mitch’s soul, and he bowed his head. “Oh, Lord,” he prayed, “Forgive me for thinking I was smart enough to escape being hurt by disobeying your teachings. I thought I could bring her to You, but I failed. Please give me the strength to let her go now, Father, but I beg You not to give up on her.”
He sat with his head bowed for several minutes before he glanced out the window at the first light of day beginning to break, then at his wristwatch—6:30 a.m. He still had a few hours before he needed to check in at the station.
He drained the rest of the coffee and stood up to pour himself another cup. His cell phone rang, always a cause for concern this early in the morning. The station’s number flashed on the caller ID.
“Hello.”
“Mitch, this is Jennie at dispatch. Just got a call reporting a murder. First responders are already there, but the chief thinks you and Myra need to get over there right away.”
Mitch hurried toward the bedroom, the phone pressed to his ear. “Have you called Myra?”
“No, but I will.”
“Good.” Mitch reached for his wallet on the dresser and stuffed it in his pants pocket. “What’s the address?”
Jennie took a deep breath. “417 Lansdowne Drive.”
His fingers tightened around the gun he’d just picked up and he felt his heart constrict. “What did you say?”
“C.J. called in the report. She just found her neighbor Mary Warren murdered.”
He lowered the gun back to the dresser top and swallowed. “Mary? Murdered?”
“I’m sorry, Mitch. I know you were fond of Mary. From what C.J. said, it’s really bad.”
He pressed his hand to his forehead. “Is C.J. all right?”
“She’s pretty upset. She was practically hysterical when she called.”
Mitch shook his head, grabbed the gun again and straightened his shoulders. No time to be upset. He had a job to do. “Call Myra and tell her to meet me there. I’m on my way.”
He flipped the cell phone closed and headed for the door, his thoughts whirling. The memory of Mary’s concern yesterday flashed through his mind.
Guilt pierced his soul. He’d thought about checking on Mary the night before. A call had come in just as he was leaving work, and he’d been tied up until late. When he finished, he’d thought C.J. might be home from the station. He needed to stay away from her, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to do that if he saw her lights on. So he’d gone back to his apartment, warmed up some pizza and watched a ball game until it was time for bed.
Suppose he had gone to Mary’s. Could he have saved her life? He stopped beside his car and pounded his fist on the roof. He would never know the answer to that question, but he knew it would weigh on him for a long time.
C.J. stared out the window over Mary’s kitchen sink. Otto lay on the back porch, his head resting on his outstretched paws. His cries of distress had now dissolved into soft whines.
She slid into a chair at the table and sat there, staring into space, her hands folded on the tabletop in front of her. Hushed voices drifted from the living room. From time to time the front door opened and closed, and new voices joined those already in the house. Every few minutes another officer, his face pale, would appear in the hallway outside the kitchen, lean against the wall and offer a weak smile in her direction.
Mitch had often told her he had never become immune to the horrors one human being could inflict on another. She realized that some of these men hadn’t, either, although they appeared to be seasoned veterans. She could understand their need to step away from this horrible crime scene for a minute.
Her stomach heaved, and she ran to the sink. She leaned over until the sickness passed, then turned the water on full force and washed up.
A hand touched her shoulder. She screamed and whirled around. Mitch stood behind her, his eyes filled with concern. She collapsed against the side of the sink and stood there, staring at him. With a cry, she threw her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his chest. His arms encircled her and rocked her back and forth.
It felt good to be in his arms. Now that he’d arrived, everything would be all right. “Oh, Mitch, I’m so glad you’re here.”
After a few moments she pulled away and gazed up at him. His jaw twitched. “Are you okay?”
Her stomach rumbled again, and she pressed her palms against it. “Did you see her? Why would anybody do that?”
He raked his hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
She could barely stand to ask the next question, but she had to know. “Did the killer dip his hands in her blood and then touch the walls?”
“Yes.”
“Then you can get fingerprints, right?”
“It looks like he may have worn some kind of gloves.” C.J. dropped into the chair again, and the key ring in her pocket rattled. She touched the bulge of keys, her eyes growing wide. “The house was locked. I had to use my key to get in. How did the killer leave all the doors bolted?”
“We don’t know, but we’re just beginning our investigation.” He paused a moment, then eased into the chair next to her. He reached out and covered her hand with his. “Which brings me to what I have to do next. We need to ask you some questions.”
“We?”
“Myra and I.”
Of course. Mitch didn’t check out any crime scene without his partner.
Myra walked into the room, sat in the chair across from C.J. and pulled a notepad from her pocket. Her fingers flipped the pages until she found a blank one. A tiny bead of perspiration slid down the side of Myra’s face, and she swallowed several times before she looked up. “I can understand how upset you are. We’ll make this as brief as possible.”
“Thank you, Myra.” C.J. glanced from Myra’s pale features to Mitch, whose fingers still clutched hers. Even if they were trained police officers, C.J. realized that the murder scene in the next room had left both of them shaken.
Mitch cleared his throat. “Okay, can you tell us what made you come over here this morning?”
Where to begin? With the e-mails and the call or noticing the closed drapes?
“Did you hear my show last night?”
Mitch shook his head. “I was on a call until late. Why?”
“Because, because…” Her lips trembled. She glanced around the kitchen where she’d visited with Mary many times. Otto’s leash hung on a peg at the backdoor. The teakettle sat on the stove. She and Mary had shared many cups of tea together, but