Strings of Fate (Mistresses of Fate) by Deirdre Dore Read Free Book Online Page A

alarm. Freckles came and helped her—reluctantly, it seemed, but he helped, his man-strength and greater height making short work of the task.
    He stepped back when he was finished, as if she had some kind of contagious disease, and rubbed his fingers as if they were dusty. It wouldn’t surprise her—a good housekeeper she was not. Ironic, since her mother was known as the finest housekeeper in Fate, a dubious title, if you asked Chris, but one her mother was proud of. Of course, after having a child with her previous employer, anything was a step up.
    It was pretty crowded in her kitchen with the two men inside it, even though there was plenty of space in the living room behind them. She realized that she couldn’t recall ever having two men over at the same time, or at least not any who seemed to take up this much space. The kitchen was plenty big enough for her—she was pretty compact.
    “Ms. Pascal, we need to ask you some questions,” Freckles said finally, snatching up one of her kitchen towels and wiping his fingers. She decided not to tell him that she’d used that towel to wipe up some milk she’d spilled a week ago. He’d figure it out.
    “Okay, shoot.” She folded her arms over her chest and lifted one foot to her thigh in a modified tree pose, then felt the need to clarify. “I mean, ask, don’t shoot, not me, anyway.”
    “Not in here.” The big Fed coughed, his eyes watering.
    “Okay, the living room,” Christina agreed, and waved them backward.
    Tavey called Chris’s decorating garage-sale chic, a term she’d coined to describe the eclectic collection of furniture that Chris had gathered from well-meaning friends and church garage sales. Chris felt her furniture was friendly, even if the couch was a velvet floral monstrosity that her grandmother had owned and not one of the tables matched—matching was overrated.
    She gestured for the men to take the couch along the wall next to the door, while she sat facing them in a gold overstuffed armchair covered in a crocheted afghan. She’d positioned the furniture so that no matter where people sat, if they turned their heads they could see out the windows, which spanned the length of the wall toward the kitchen and rose almost to the top of her sixteen-foot ceilings. As far as she was concerned, the best part of her apartment was the view of the tree-covered mountain ridges that insulated their town. Gauzy lacy curtains framed them, but she rarely closed the curtains all the way. If she was going to be in her apartment most of the time, she didn’t want to feel closed in.
    The men looked decidedly uncomfortable on the extremely floral couch. Chris didn’t blame them; the scent of old lady clung to the thing no matter what she did. She’d considered borrowing one of Tavey’s hound dogs to see if she could get the smelly beasts to dog the place up. Anything was better than that too-much-perfume-and-baby-powder mess.
    “Ms. Pascal—”
    “Hey, what are your names?” Christina interrupted.
    The older guy introduced himself first. “I’m Special Agent Scott Midaugh, and this is Special Agent Ryan Helmer.”
    “Okay.” She nodded. “So what’s up?”
    “Ms. Pascal, we’re dealing with a serial murder investigation. You may have heard about it on the news.”
    Chris shook her head. “Sorry, I don’t watch the news.”
    “Ever?” Freckles sounded incredulous.
    The older agent, Midaugh, ignored him. “Ms. Pascal, we’re here to find out what you know about an unsub that we’ve been hunting. I understand you don’t watch the news, but you may have heard. The media is calling him . . . the Boyfriend, ” he concluded with distaste.
    Chris felt it again, the zing that raised all the hairs on her body. The Boyfriend. Raquel had mentioned the case—she remembered now. Some man was forming relationships with women online and then viciously assaulting and murdering them.
    “The Boyfriend,” she repeated, wondering again why saying