SURVIVAL INSTINCT

CHAPTER: 7

Sarah's mother hung up the phone, as she was well contented after hearing that Sarah was positively coming for her birthday.

Sarah flopped back on the sofa with a groan, after having finished the call with her mother. She knew she would have to spend all of Wednesday night hearing war stories with Tony, who had probably been very fond of his wife, even though her mother didn't like her, and she would have to express sympathy and comfort while the entire rest of her family and Tony's dad would give us secret glances out of the corners of their eyes to judge how we were getting along. Marvelous, isn't it, pun intended though?

The phone rang again, and Sarah picked it up with a snarl. If it was her mom calling back with a suggestion as to what she should wear to the party, to make the best possible impression on Tony, Sarah was going to kill her. "Yes?" she asked.

"Ms. Miller?"

Oops. "Yes, Detective," Sarah said smoothly, while her mind started running probabilities. "What can I do for you?" Had they arrested someone? Sarah wondered. Were they about to arrest her?

"I was wondering if you might do me a favor, Ms. Miller."

"Of course," Sarah said casually.

"The forensic team is finishing up at the house, but we have not been able to find the key to lock up. It was not with the dead body or anywhere else in the house. I thought you might be able to help," Detective Hudson said.

Sarah hesitated. There was probably a spare key at the office, but the idea of digging through Diana's belongings was unpalatable. Plus, Sarah did not want to go back to South Massachusetts Avenue. She had always been afraid of the dark, as she had grown up being fed ghost stories by her younger brother and her elder sister; and discovering a corpse had not helped matters. Also in addition to the fear of meeting Diana's angry ghost, there was an even less appealing possibility of meeting her murderer. Sarah had seen enough TV shows to know that the killer often returns to the scene of the crime, and occasionally kills someone else who happens to be hanging around.

On the other hand, Sarah could not in good conscience say no.

"Sure." Sarah's voice was a lot less happy this time, and Detective Hudson noticed that.

"If you prefer, I can meet you somewhere and get the key from you. That way you don't have to go back there," Detective Hudson said. She did not even bother to try to hide her scorn.

"No," Sarah said, stung, "that won't be necessary. I will take care of it."

The detective reverted to her cordial manner. "Thank you, Ms. Miller. I will be in touch."

She hung up before Sarah had time to say anything else.

So that was how Sarah came to be driving up to South Massachusetts Avenue around eight in the evening. She drove slowly, looking around, ignoring the d*******l taking place on the corner, but inspecting the grounds of 102 South Massachusetts Avenue for any lingering forensic experts. The drug dealers ignored her and everything else was quiet as she turned the car into the circular driveway and crunched up to the front steps. There was a mess from all the cars that had come and gone, and there were cigarette butts, and empty gum and chocolate wrappers littering the front yard. Sarah grimaced. She thought cops had better sense than to clutter up their crime scene with garbage. Or maybe they were left behind by reporters or the general public, who had probably stopped by to gawk at the scene of the crime, because of all the publicity that Diana's case had garnered in the media. 

Sarah was already a little fearful of something that had happened earlier. She had stopped by the office to look for Diana's spare key, and while she was there, someone had walked in, and she had ducked down behind the desk to avoid talking to them. She was planning to come into the office in the morning, to tackle everyone's questions at the weekly sales meeting, but until then she was deliberately avoiding people. So when she heard a key in the back door, she switched off the desk lamp and crouched behind Diana's desk, holding her breath.

The steps, light and quick, went past, and into another office further up the hall. The light came on down there and spilled out into the hallway. Sarah could hear drawers opening and closing, the rattling of keys, and singing, Then the light was shut off again, and the footsteps came back. They halted outside Diana's open door. A hand then flicked on the overhead light. Sarah held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut.

That brassy voice could not belong to anyone but Tim Dickson, who had spent a couple of years in New York, while trying to get on Broadway, before returning to Kansas City, Missouri, to become a realtor. Sarah could even make a pretty good guess as to what was going through his blond head as he stood there. And it was not that he had heard a voice and come to the office. No, he was admiring the office, the second largest in the building, with a solid wooden desk and leather chair bearing the permanent imprint of Diana's butt, and imagining the day it would be his.

Sarah thanked her stars that he did not decide to come and sit on the chair, or else she would have to explain as to why she was hiding behind the desk, although more awkward than that was explaining what she was doing in Diana's office in the first place. Luckily, after a moment Tim turned the light off again, leaving her crouched in the darkness, before he pranced on down the hall and out of the door, whistling merrily. Just before the back door opened again, she heard his voice. "Hey, It's me, Tim Dickson. Do you have a minute? There is something I would like to talk to you about."

The door closed with a dull thud, but Sarah waited until she heard the growl of his car engine outside before she crawled out from behind the desk.

And well, now she was standing outside the door of 102 South Massachusetts Avenue, preparing to do her duty and then get out of the place quickly. There was only one problem though. There was a light on in the library, spilling out into the front hall. The forensic team must have forgotten to turn it off while leaving Sarah assumed.

She thought she would come back the next day to deal with it, but that would mean another thirty minutes drive from her home. It was therefore more practical, though unpleasant to take care of it now. After all, she had the key.

A piece of yellow tape hung across the front door, and Sarah had to snake her hand under it to find the doorknob and insert the key in it. She took a deep breath before pushing open the door. It had gone very dark outside, as it had taken thirty minutes to get there. The interior of the house was pitch dark, except for the glow from the library casting dull light in the hallway. Sarah stepped into the foyer and stopped. Silence and darkness surrounded her. Her heart started beating at a very fast pace. She reached out and flicked the ancient light switch, on the wall next to the door. It turned on with a click, but no light came on. The bulb had probably burned out.

The next second, as if in response, the light in the library went out, too. Sarah stopped breathing, and she had a feeling that at the end of the hallway, someone else was doing just the same as her; peering in her direction, just as she was.

Sarah had two options. She could run right down there and investigate, like a detective. Maybe one of the forensic experts might have forgotten something and had come back for it. There might be no danger at all.

On the other hand, it could be someone worst. Sarah could end up with her head severed from her body, like Diana.

Well, there was no contest on. She did not want to become a detective. She wanted even less to be the next Diana Walter. She, therefore, exercised option 2 and swung around on her heel and ran for safety, down the rickety steps, and across the gravel, without bothering to secure the door behind her.