<< Go Back

Let Darkness Come

By Angela Elwell Hunt

Order Now!

The night was made for murder.
She waits until his breaths are deep and even; waits until he snores in a regular rhythm. Then she slips out of bed and moves to the window, raising the blind until a wave of silver moonlight floods the room.

She won't risk waking him by turning on the lamp. Moonlight suits her purposes; it has always suited her nature.

She creeps into the bathroom and pulls the basket with his sharps and bottles from beneath the sink. These she transfers to the nightstand, then she lifts a syringe, unwraps it, and presses the thin needle into the neck of a bottle.

He took his insulin before bedtime, a dose guaranteed to stabilize his blood chemistry throughout the night. This second injection will stabilize him forever.

She measures out fifty units of regular insulin and drops the bottle back into its basket. The gentle chink of glass against glass does not rouse him. The man sleeps like a log, particularly on nights when he is so full of himself that he can't resist berating his wife.

Idiot. White trash. Slut.

Never again will those words pass his lips. Never again will she wear long sleeves on hot summer days.

Never again will his fist slam into her belly.

She lowers herself to the mattress, lifts the syringe in her left hand, and gently tugs on the covers with her right. His snoring halts, then erupts in an explosion of breath. His body has sensed the abrupt change in temperature, and his fingers fumble at his pajama top, searching for the comforter.

When he stops moving, she slides the thin needle into the pale flesh of his abdomen and presses the plunger. The instrument of death makes no sound, nor does its bite make him flinch. The needle has nipped at this flesh many times.

Like a loving mother tucking in a child, she covers him again and stands as he slumbers on, oblivious to his fate.

She returns the basket of supplies to the bathroom vanity and tosses the syringe into the trash. Her gaze falls on the mirror, where a ghostly image of her form is reflected in shadows. Then she crawls back into the warm bed and closes her eyes, willing herself to sleep.

*******

Kate Barnhill, the paralegal assigned to the second-floor associates, sticks her head into Briley Lester's office. "Did you get rid of the dragon lady?"

Briley holds up a handwritten memo and drops it into the Busch file. "Case dismissed," she says, sighing. "Now I can move on to the next innocent and misunderstood client." She stares at the stack of folders on her credenza. "Look at all those dog cases. Franklin is breathing down my neck about clearing at least five files a week, but it takes time to handle clients properly. And since most of these are civil cases, I'm a little out of my element."

Kate tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear and steps into the room. "At my last firm, they'd just send the client a letter saying the case wasn't worth their time."

"And now I understand why you don't work there anymore." Briley picks up the next file and skims the case summary. "This concerns a real estate deal. Don't we have an associate in real estate law?"

"The red-haired guy back by the water cooler—he's handling real estate." Kate reaches for the file, jingling a loaded charm bracelet on her wrist. "I'll carry it over."

"I've never seen anybody in that office."

"That's because he's always out in the field, or so he says. But though he may not be around much, somehow he manages to bill two thousand hours per year."

"No wonder I'm getting nowhere in this firm—I'm breaking my neck to bill fifteen hundred. More and more these days I can't remember why I ever became a lawyer." Briley picks up the next file, skims the summary report, and frowns. "Haven't I represented Clive Thomas before?"

Kate smiles as she moves toward the door. "Surely you remember the dognapper. You pleaded him down to nine months in Cook County Jail."

"You're right—the Chihuahua thief." Briley drops the folder onto her desk. "Now he wants to sue the state over the inmates' food. He says it's nutritionally lacking."

"You going down to the jail to brush him off?"

"No," Briley answers, settling into her creaky desk chair. "Him, I'm writing a letter."

Order Now!

<< Go Back