A Killer's Watch Read Online Free

tedious and boring. He so
wished he could delegate this aspect of his new hobby to an associate, but he’d
yet to find someone he felt was trustworthy.
    Someone he could control, completely.
    Anson’s teachings had been crystal clear on this point.
Never entrust your secrets to an unworthy partner.
    As he sprinkled bleach over Shelby’s body, he let his mind
drift to the beauty awaiting him in the next chamber. He hadn’t planned to take
Allison so soon, but her decision to sneak out to the club alone was an
opportunity too good to miss. Given the fact his time with Shelby was cut
short, taking Allison had been a fortunate turn of events.
    Whistling softly, he pulled down the overhead nozzle, turned
on the water, and squirted evidence of Shelby’s last moments into the drain in
the floor. Blood and bits of bone slid off the stainless steel table,
disappearing into the cavern beneath the tile floor. From there, the water took
the debris through a series of underground pipes, eventually flowing into the
river behind his estate.
    When the room was saturated clean, Graham left the body on
the table, allowing it time to dry before he rolled it in plastic. It was much
easier to handle, if it wasn’t bogged down with water.
    Slipping off thick, rubber gloves, and the apron that kept
his clothes pristine, he flipped off the lights and closed the door, locking it
behind him. None of the servants were allowed in the cellar, but he took
precautions, just in case.
    Deciding to peek in on Allison, before joining his mother
for lunch, he opened the next door in the old hallway just a crack, enough so
he could look inside.
    Silent hinges made it possible for him to watch her,
unobserved. That, and the fact that the bed faced away from the door. Still, he
had a good view of her terror, saw that she still struggled against the tape.
    That will stop soon enough ,
he thought, pulling the door shut. In his experience, they all gave up trying
to get loose within the first few hours. The screaming stopped, too, but only
until he moved them into the event room. Once there, they all took up screaming
again. It was pitiful, really, that they thought it would do them any good.
    Shaking his head, Graham picked up the pace as he moved
toward his other life. Born into wealth and privilege, Graham Grant had never
truly worked a day in his life. It was one of the reasons that the job of
clean-up was such an abhorrent waste of his time.
    “Perhaps one day I can divest myself of such menial duties,”
he said aloud as he opened the thick, cellar door, made from trees mined from
the estate.
    Past owners had used the cellar to house summer vegetables,
canned by slaves and housekeepers for centuries. The underground space had also
been used to store liquor, during prohibition, and weapons during the civil
war. For the past fifty years, during the time his father ran the estate, the
cellar had remained empty. There was no longer a reason to hide things away, or
to store foodstuffs for the coming winter. The Grants had no need for such
banal oddities as canned food, or homemade alcohol.
    Among other things, Graham inherited a wine cellar, when his
father passed away last spring, filled with an exceptional selection from the
world’s best vineyards. Their cook, Marie, was always willing to prepare
whatever dish Graham, or his mother, desired.
    Closing the cellar door firmly, Graham replaced the lock,
supposedly to keep anyone from wandering down inside the tomb and getting hurt.
Rusty and old, with a skeleton key that outdated any other on the estate, the
lock spoke of abandonment, of a structure that long outlived its purpose.
    Pocketing the key, Graham emerged from behind the hill,
obstructing the cellar door from view of the house.
    It was a lovely day, really, he thought, strolling casually
along the grounds to the terrace. Anyone peering through the windows of the
vast mansion would think him out for a breath of air. Nothing sinister, or out
of the