Hush Little Girl by Lisa Regan (first e reader .txt) 📗

to keep them safe. Come with me. You can meet them, make some calls, and wait in a nice warm, dry house until help comes. I’ll even feed you.”

The deer’s cries had slowed somewhat but they were still loud and piercing. Josie tore her gaze away from its tortured eyes, wanting to look at anything else but the dying animal. She stared at the photograph. Both girls had shoulder-length brown hair. The younger girl’s hair was poker-straight, but the older girl’s was curly like Lorelei’s. “The youngest is Emily,” Lorelei said. “The older one is Holly.”

In the photo, Holly had one arm wrapped protectively around Emily’s shoulder. Emily gave a toothy grin. Holly’s smile was closed-lipped but no less infectious. They wore matching T-shirts with a drawing of a sloth and underneath, the words: My Spirit Animal. Josie gave a little laugh.

“Cute, aren’t they?” Lorelei said with a grin.

Josie was about to hand the photo back when she noticed Holly’s eyelashes. They were completely white.

Lorelei took a step closer and pointed at Holly’s face. “You’re looking at her eyelashes, right?” she said. “It’s okay. Everyone notices. She has poliosis.”

Josie could barely hear over the deer. She looked up at Lorelei. “What?”

“Poliosis. It’s a genetic thing. Harmless. Just the absence of melanin in your hair or eyelashes. She hates it, but I think it makes her look striking.”

Josie gave her the photo. “I’m sorry. I can’t—I can’t concentrate. Yes, let’s go back to the house.”

“Get in,” Lorelei told her.

Josie climbed into the truck and strapped herself in. Lorelei got in and turned the truck around, doing a three-point turn in the middle of the road. They could still hear the suffering deer. Before she pulled away, she put the truck back in park and said, “Hold on.”

Lorelei turned her body, reaching into the back seat and riffling around. Before Josie could ask any questions, she was out of the truck, her shotgun in her hand. Josie twisted in her seat, noticing two boxes of ammunition on the floor in the back. One box was open and a shell was missing. Her fingers punched at the seatbelt release button so she could get out and go after Lorelei.

A gunshot boomed, echoing all around them. The keening stopped. Josie sat completely frozen in her seat. Seconds later, Lorelei got back into the truck. Securing the shotgun to the rack behind their heads, she offered Josie a smile. “I’ll call the game commission when we get to my place.”

“You shot her,” Josie said.

“She was suffering, and no one was going to save her. No one could save her.”

Josie stared at her, open-mouthed.

Lorelei put the truck in drive and pulled back onto the road. “You can’t stop it, you know.”

“Suffering?” Josie said.

Lorelei laughed. “Well, that, too, yes, but I meant death. You can’t stop death.”

One

Three Months Later

Josie stared at herself in the full-sized, freestanding mirror, barely recognizing the woman who stared back. She had chosen a simple, strapless wedding dress with a long, lacy train that she could sweep up into a bustle. Her mother Shannon had said it looked like something a Grecian goddess would wear. Josie liked the simplicity and elegance of it, as well as the mobility it allowed her. As a detective for the city of Denton, Pennsylvania, Josie was used to wearing khaki pants and polo shirts. Work never seemed to slow down, and she rarely got to dress up other than for funerals. Pushing that thought out of her mind, she ran her hands down over her hips. This was a happy day.

She turned her head from side to side. Her twin sister, Trinity Payne, a famous journalist who lived in New York City, had brought both a make-up artist and a hair stylist to Denton to work on Josie as well as the members of Josie’s bridal party, which consisted of Trinity, Josie’s friend, Misty Derossi, and Josie’s friend and colleague, Detective Gretchen Palmer. The make-up artist and hairdresser had done a remarkable job. Josie’s black locks had been pulled up and twisted into a chignon. Her skin glowed. Even the thin scar that ran down the right side of her face from her ear to beneath her chin, was almost invisible. The photographer that Trinity had also chosen flitted around her, taking pictures from every angle.

A hand squeezed her shoulder and Trinity’s face appeared behind her in the mirror. “You look amazing. Noah is going to lose it when he sees you coming down the aisle.”

“I look like you on a normal day,” Josie observed.

Trinity laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh please,” she said.

The photographer snapped several photos of the two of them. Trinity’s black hair floated at her shoulders. The cobalt blue of the bridesmaid’s dress Josie had chosen was a lovely contrast against Trinity’s porcelain skin. As always, her make-up was impeccable.

From the corner of the suite, where she sat at a small, round table, Josie’s grandmother, Lisette Matson, laughed. “Imagine, Josie. You could look like a movie star every day with a bit of make-up.”

Trinity laughed and reached up to adjust a strand of Josie’s hair. “I’m not a movie star, remember? I’m a journalist.”

“Who’s about to have her very own show on national network television,” Lisette pointed out. “I’m happy for you, dear.”

Josie turned and raised a brow at Lisette. “I wear make-up. Just not… industrial-strength make-up.”

On the other side of the room, two heavy wooden chairs with crushed velvet cushions had been placed side by side for Misty and Gretchen to occupy while the hair stylist and make-up artist continued working their magic. Misty, her face upturned while the make-up artist brushed foundation along her jawline, said, “I ask her if I can do her make-up all the time, and she says no.”

Josie said, “I certainly don’t need this much make-up for work.”

Beside Misty, Gretchen scowled as the hair stylist used her fingers to work mousse into Gretchen’s short, spiky brown and gray hair. “That’s true,” she agreed.

“I need to