Hush Little Girl Lisa Regan (classic reads TXT) 📖

floral scent wafted through the air. Josie had no doubt it came from the tightly packed flowerbed in front of the porch. She listened to Gretchen knock and call out Lorelei’s name.

No response.

The feeling of uneasiness turning Josie’s stomach went into overdrive. She glanced at the truck. The shotgun was no longer hanging from the cab window. But it wouldn’t be if Lorelei was home, Josie remembered. In January when they’d arrived at this very spot, she had watched Lorelei climb into the rear of the truck’s cab and lift the small back seats to reveal a gun safe tucked beneath them. It was so cleverly disguised, it merely looked like it was part of the black metal base of the seats. Lorelei had used a key from her keychain to unlock it, slide her shotgun and boxes of ammunition inside, and secure it again before turning the seats back down. Josie would never have known it was there.

Gretchen knocked harder this time, and Josie heard a loud creak. “The door’s open,” said Gretchen. She moved closer to the open door and tried calling Lorelei again.

Josie hobbled over to the truck and peered inside. On the headrest of the driver’s seat was a bloody handprint.

“Shit,” Josie said. Hitching her dress up, she scrambled toward the other side of the truck. Another bloody handprint marred the truck’s door handle. While the rest of the front looked undisturbed, the back seat was a different story. The seats were up and the lid of the gun safe was mangled. From where Josie stood, it looked as though someone had used a heavy object to smash in the lock mechanism and then pry open the safe. Lorelei’s shotgun was gone.

Josie turned, her feet already trying to run toward Gretchen, but her heels got stuck again. She fell forward, catching herself with her palms. Slipping her feet out of her shoes, she left them behind and clambered up the front porch steps. “Gretchen,” she called. “Something’s wrong. Something’s really wrong.”

Four

Gretchen went back to her vehicle and retrieved her phone from the front seat. Josie moved close enough to look over her shoulder and see that she was texting both Mettner and the Chief to request back-up and the Evidence Response Team. Tucking the phone into her bra, she leaned back into the car and took a gun from her clutch purse. Handing it to Josie, she said, “This is my service weapon. You’ll use this one.”

Taking the Glock, barrel pointed downward, Josie said, “You brought this to my wedding?”

Gretchen grimaced. “I bring it everywhere. It’s nothing personal. Come on.”

She led Josie around to the trunk of the car and popped it open. She pushed aside a few emergency supplies—ponchos, first aid kit, jump starter, and flashlight—to reveal a small metal rectangular-shaped box with a silver lock on it. Josie knew at once it was where Gretchen kept her personal gun. Metal jangled in Gretchen’s hand as she searched for the key. Once she found it, she opened the box and pulled out a Ruger Security-9 together with a full magazine. She palmed the magazine into the gun and chambered a round with expert precision. Keeping the barrel of her gun toward the ground, she said, “What are we talking about here? What kind of weapon did this woman have?”

“A Winchester 1200,” Josie answered.

Gretchen’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Then she said, “Okay. You’ve been in this house before. You’ll take the lead.”

Josie nodded.

They could have stayed outside and waited for back-up, but so far what they knew was that one of the home’s residents had been murdered; there were two bloody handprints at the scene, and one missing shotgun. The front door had been left open. If Lorelei or Emily were still inside and one or both of them were injured, waiting for back-up could be the difference between life and death. Josie and Gretchen had to go in and make sure that no one in the house needed aid. Neither of them stated the other obvious issue: the killer could potentially still be inside.

Josie said, “Take off those heels.”

Without hesitation, Gretchen kicked off her taupe heels and followed Josie up the front steps. They positioned themselves on opposite sides of the door, elbows tucked against their bodies, pistols pulled in close to their torsos but at the ready.

“I’m going left,” Josie said.

Gretchen nodded. She would go right. Reaching forward, Gretchen pushed the door open, and Josie stepped through it smoothly and quickly, immediately moving left while Gretchen went right. Her feet, snug in sheer pantyhose, moved lightly and silently along the left side of the room. Her eyes followed the barrel of her gun, her mind cataloguing things in rapid-fire fashion. Old yellow couch and loveseat. Beanbag chairs.

Gretchen swept the other side of the room, moving in sync with Josie until they met at a doorway to what Josie knew was a dining room. A rushing started in her ears. Her heart raced. Gretchen fell slightly behind her, waiting on Josie’s lead. In law enforcement, doorways were known as the fatal funnel because when you were clearing a structure, they became a choke-point where officers were most vulnerable and most likely to die. Josie took a second to try to slow down the adrenaline shooting through her veins. “Right,” she said quietly to Gretchen.

Gretchen squeezed her shoulder, indicating she understood the plan. Josie moved into the dining room first, moving to the right while Gretchen moved to the left, eyes and gun barrels panning each corner of the room for any threats. Again, Josie’s mind quickly catalogued what she saw. Dark wooden table taking up most of the room. Four chairs. Two tucked in, one pulled slightly out, and the last knocked on its side. Markers, sketch pads, and a coloring book scattered across the table and the floor. A bowl of cereal overturned on the hardwood floor. Droplets of dried blood leading to the next choke-point. This doorway was narrower.

Again, Gretchen