Before Cain Strikes by Joshua Corin Read Free Book Online Page A

gone and chained Lynette Robinson, by all accounts a nice woman, in the basement of a house and cut off her hands. Where was God’s hand in that?
    More questions, no answers. She looked to her husband. His eyes seemed busy, full of concentration. Rafe.
    Talk about questions without answers.
    “What do you want for dinner?” she asked him.
    “Whatever Dad’s got in the house. Probably canned soup.”
    “I’m sure there’s a restaurant between here and there.”
    Rafe squeezed the steering wheel. “We stop, we get out, and an hour later we have to shovel out the car. Again. And by then it’ll be nighttime. Unless it’s already nighttime. I can’t see a goddamn thing.”
    “You can see me,” she said.
    His busy eyes zipped in her direction. She crossed her eyes, wiggled her ears, pulled back her lips with her fingers and stuck out her tongue.
    Rafe grinned. He couldn’t help it. He wanted to remain serious, stoic, but when his wife whipped out the funny face, all hope was lost.
    He murmured, “My beautiful bride.”
    “You better believe it.”
    They held hands the rest of the ride home.
    By the time they pulled into the carport, it was indeed nighttime. The lights on the street gave each of the falling snowflakes an angelic aura. Esme was reminded of fairies, and then her mind went to Lynette Robinson’s hands, and then each of the snowflakes became a woman’s severed hand, falling, falling.
    “Awful early in the season for a blizzard,” noted Rafe as they entered the house.
    Esme just nodded and tried to rid her imagination of dark thoughts. What she needed was her music. She quickly grabbed her iPod from her suitcase and searched around for a pair of speakers to plug it in. Surely Lester had something in this house that was compatible…
    Rafe emptied two cans of chili into a pot and set it to boil.
    “What are you looking for?” he asked.
    “The twenty-first century,” she replied, checking inside handmade cabinets and hutches.
    “You’re not going to find that here.”
    She returned to the kitchen, an exaggerated pout onher lips. Rafe shrugged and started to stir the chili. Esme joined him at the gas stove, hip-checking him to make room, and cooked the contents of a box of white rice on an adjacent burner.
    Apropos of absolutely nothing, Rafe turned to her and said, “So do you think it was the boyfriend?”
    She lowered the temperature on Rafe’s burner.
    “He had an alibi at the time of the fire.”
    “Alibis can be falsified.”
    She smirked at him. “Since when did you become a criminologist?”
    “Everyone who watches prime-time TV is an amateur criminologist.” He grabbed some basil off the spice rack and sprinkled a few dashes into the chili. “I just want to make sure no stone goes unturned.”
    There was that melancholy again, quavering the timbre of his voice. Esme noticed the steam from the pots was misting up his glasses. He did nothing to remedy the situation. She waited. He continued to stir, his vision undoubtedly getting foggier and foggier. Christ, the man could be stubborn.
    She handed him a dishrag.
    “What’s this for?”
    “Just give me your glasses.”
    He did. She wiped them. He poured the boiled rice into the chili and stirred them together.
    “The man who killed her took her hands.”
    Esme regretted saying it the moment the words came out. In fact, she had no honest idea why she’d shared with him this information, which was both grisly and confidential. He had no need to know. He had no need to ever know.
    But now he knew.
    He stared at her, his turquoise eyes so small, sovulnerable, without his glasses on. At that moment he didn’t look like a sociology professor or the father of a seven-year-old girl. He looked like a boy, a broken-hearted little boy.
    “I’m sorry…” said Esme. “I—”
    He began to pace the kitchen, thinking, thinking. Then he wheeled on her, fists clenched. “Why would someone do that?”
    Esme shrugged. “Any number of