The Killing Kind Read Free Page A

and onto her rutted dirt drive. Seconds later, the sky opened, unleashing sheets of heavy rain. Evie sighed and turned her wipers on as fast as they would go, but still her visibility was reduced to nothing. She slowed to a crawl and felt her tires sinking in, the ruts they traveled now twin rivers of churning, muddy water. Rain pounded on the car’s roof as loud as hail.
    It was sunny when I left Warrenton, she thought with a sigh. Still, she shouldn’t have been surprised. During summer in Virginia, the weather had a habit of turning on a dime.
    The Jetta fishtailed as Evie rounded the bend that brought her rambling, buttercream farmhouse into view, her groceries jostling in the backseat. The trees that crowded the length of the driveway gave way to rolling lawn. Evie pulled in next to Stuart’s pickup and waited a moment, car idling, for the rain to abate before deciding it wasn’t likely to slow anytime soon. So she thumbed the ignition and the car shuddered off, heat and humidity encroaching immediately once the air conditioner stopped.
    Getting out of the car was harder than it had been a few months ago, before she’d started to show. Took three tries and one decidedly un-ladylike groan. As soon as she stepped out, one wedge-heeled sandal sank into a mud puddle. Muck, cool and slimy between her toes, yanked the sandal from her foot as she took a step toward higher ground.
    By the time she got the rear door open, her shirt clung heavily to her swollen belly, and her hair was plastered to her face. She hauled the groceries out of the backseat— standing cockeyed with one sandal on and one bare foot— and glanced toward the deck, where the French doors stood open. There was still no sign of Stuart. Strange. Ever since he’d seen that blue plus sign four months ago, Evie hadn’t so much as opened a pickle jar or carried a load of laundry— at least, when Stu was home to stop her. To be honest, his constant hovering drove her nuts, even though she knew that it was well intentioned. She was surprised he hadn’t rushed out to lend a hand the second she’d pulled in. She thought the sight of her carrying two overflowing bags of groceries would be enough to bring him running, hollering at her to put them down.
    Figures, she thought. The one time I actually need some help.
    “Honey?” she shouted toward the open doors, the light on within.
    Stuart didn’t answer.
    “Hon?” she called again, hobbling up the stairs to the deck—the bags sodden in her arms, her gait loping and awkward now that her left leg was down a couple inches from her right. She reached the open doors and peered inside through the screen. The house was ablaze with light— just like Stuart, she thought; you’d swear he thinks those switches only work in one direction—but Stuart was nowhere to be seen.
    Evie eyed the screen-door latch and heaved a sigh of consternation. Then she contorted herself into an awkward crouch-turn—an upside-down comma—so that if she squeezed the bag with her forearm and twisted her wrist just so, she could maybe kinda sorta get a grip on it and... crap. The bag in her left hand tore, spilling groceries everywhere. A tomato rolled across the deck. Egg white oozed from the upturned egg carton.
    Where the hell was Stuart, anyway?
    Evie stuffed the groceries back into the torn bag and yanked open the screen door. She put the bags down atop the kitchen island and turned to close the door behind her—trailing muddy footprints across the tiles—only then realizing she could have simply set the bags down on the patio table and then opened the door with ease.
    Damn pregnancy brain.
    A click of nails on hardwood, and Abigail trotted into the kitchen with as much brio as a six-year-old bulldog can muster.
    “Abby, where’s Stu?” Evie asked. Abigail glanced back the way she came for just a moment before stretching upward into Evie’s head-scratch, her stubby tail wagging with glee. Then she shuffled off toward her