Death Notice

Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London, SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

This paperback edition 2011

First published by Minotaur Books, an imprint of Macmillan Publishers Ltd., New York, 2010

Copyright © Todd Ritter 2010.

Todd Ritter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Source ISBN: 9781847562951

Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2011 ISBN: 9781847562968 Version: 2014–12–16

To Mike, for everything

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

March

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

July

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

October

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Epilogue

Keep Reading

Acknowledgments

About the Author

About the Publisher

The pain snapped him into consciousness. A sharp, steady throbbing, it began at his mouth and pulsed down his jaw and neck. He tried to moan—it was the kind of pain that made men moan—but couldn’t. The pain flared so badly after each attempt that he stopped trying.

He stayed quiet, listening to the ragged streams of air rushing through his nostrils. When he opened his eyes, he saw only darkness as something brushed against his lashes.

Cloth. Heavy and rough.

He was blindfolded.

His face felt damp. He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was blood, smeared across his chin. A thin line slipped down his cheek. The liquid was inside his mouth, too. On his tongue. Pooling in the crevices between his teeth.

Blood. He was certain now. He could taste it.

He lay flat on his back, his body stretched taut, arms at his sides. When he tried to move them, they wouldn’t budge. Rope was wrapped across his arms, legs, torso, and head, binding him tight. The pressure flattened him, ironing out the stooped shoulders that fifty years on the farm had given him.

He began to panic, breathing faster through his nostrils, a locomotive picking up speed. He tried to yell for help, parting his lips to scream. But his mouth wouldn’t open. His lips refused to separate, the pain there growing more extreme. He tried two more times, the hurt so bad it formed deep grunts in the back of his throat. Since the grunts had no way of escaping, he was forced to choke them back.

On his last attempt to scream, he realized what had happened. The pain brought clarity, sharpening his mind so that he understood the situation fully.

Someone had sealed his mouth shut.

He tried to scream once more, hoping the sheer strength of the sound would blast through the barrier his lips now created. The noise that emerged was familiar to him. He heard it all the time on the farm—the high-pitched squeal made just before the slaughter. Only this time the sound was coming from him.

He heard another noise, audible beneath his own desperate attempts to cry out.

Footsteps.

Someone else was there.

“It won’t be as bad if you hold still,” a voice in the darkness said.

The owner of the voice stood just behind his head. He felt warm breath on his ear. Fingers crawled along his chin and held his head in place.

Something pressed against his neck. Cold. Sharp. There was a moment of pressure, an unsettling suspense. Then the cold, sharp something pushed through his skin, entering his body, dividing flesh from flesh.

Blood poured out of him, spilling onto his shoulders, dampening his hair. He lay there helpless, feeling like a freshly gutted animal. Each beat of his heart sent another wave of blood coursing out of his body.

This time, the pain was unbearable. It wasn’t just at his mouth anymore.

It was inside him.

It was everywhere.

He began to scream. Not out loud, but in his head, the desperate sirens of noise ricocheting off the inside of his skull. The cold, sharp something remained in his neck, wriggling. The pain was so overwhelming it erased his thoughts, his silent screams. It kept erasing until there was nothing left in his head but pain.

And fear.

And, finally, darkness.

“Chief Campbell!”

Kat’s name rattled up Main Street as soon as she set foot on the sidewalk. She had just stepped out of Big Joe’s, a Starbucks wannabe, carrying an extra-large coffee, for which she had paid Starbucks’ prices. Normally, the concept of four-dollar java would have annoyed her. But it was a gray and frigid morning, and she needed the heat and clarity that coffee provided. Unfortunately, the sound of her name, now being shouted a second time, prevented her from taking that first, precious sip.