Eternally

Alicia was gone and Kate…

The rattle of wheels and metal jolted through the house and she jumped in reaction. Pushing off the couch, Julie ignored every other person in the room and started toward the gurney two men were pushing toward the front door.

“Kate,” she whispered, reaching out for her friend’s hand and stopping short of touching her. Kate’s features were still, her chocolate colored skin seeming somehow pale.

A brilliant white bandage wrapped her throat and IV needles jutted from her arms, trailing tubes hooked to plastic packages dripping fluids into her body. Julie’s stomach lurched and tears she’d thought dried up stung her eyes again. Even breathing hurt, as if her lungs were being squeezed in a vise.

How could this have happened?

How could Alicia be dead?

How could Kate be so badly hurt?

What was happening?

“Excuse me, miss,” one of the paramedics said brusquely with a quick glance at his patient. “You have to step back, let us get her to the hospital.”

“I should go with her,” Julie said, staring at Kate’s face, unsuccessfully willing her to open her big brown eyes.

“Sorry, not possible.” He didn’t sound sorry, just hurried. Julie jumped back as they pushed the gurney past her. All she could do was stand there and watch.

Just an hour ago, she’d found Alicia’s…body and hurried into the house to call the police. That’s when she’d found Kate, her other housemate, lying on the floor behind the couch. The same dark red ring circled the base of Kate’s neck, but the slice hadn’t been deep enough to kill her. Instead Kate was gravely injured, but still breathing. Thank you, God.

So far, the police were speculating that Kate had surprised Alicia’s killer and in his haste to escape, the killer hadn’t taken the time to make sure his second victim was dead.

A sloppy killer.

Should that make her less scared or more so?

God, she didn’t know what to do.

Mouth dry, eyes streaming, she turned in a slow circle, trying to get a grip on what was happening. But how could she? No one was ever prepared for this kind of thing. Murders didn’t happen in your own home. They happened to some poor slob who was safely distanced from you on the TV set. Killers didn’t slip through your house, killing people you loved, leaving them lying in their own blood like forgotten dolls.

Outside the house, media vans were already parked. Didn’t take long for news to travel. Not when every television station and newspaper in town was hooked into the police radio frequency. For now, all of the reporters were being stalled at the base of the driveway, held back not by their own moral codes, but by the string of police officers standing guard.