Cereal Killer

Savannah said. She sighed and rose to her feet. After three days, bath fish and visitors stink, she reminded herself as she walked past her sister, into the living room, and up the stairs.
    But that was your average, run-of-the-mill visit. This was a Reid sister visit that was only forty-five minutes old. And there was no doubt—it was already as smelly as a week-old catfish.
     
    Savannah lay in the middle of her bedroom floor, her arms outflung, staring up at the ceiling. As she watched her ceiling fan spinning above her, the thought occurred to her that she must look like the bad guy in an old Western who had just faced down the sheriff at high noon. And lost the gun battle.
    That was about the way she felt, too.
    The clock on her nightstand said it was well after midnight, and she wasn’t even in the vicinity of “sleepy” in spite of her exhausting evening with her sister. While listening to Marietta drone on about her beloved cyberprince, she had fought to stay awake and feign interest. But once in bed, she had started thinking about Caitíin Connor, and now she was wide awake and frustrated. Not a good combination.
    For the fifth time, she stood up, rearranged her flannel pajamas, patted her hair into place, and then hurled herself backward onto the floor again.
    Fortunately, she had chosen an especially thick carpet when she had replaced the old one in her bedroom last summer. And she had martial arts training, so she knew how to fall without breaking or even severely straining anything vital. Plus there was that layer of Godiva/Chunky Monkey/Nacho Doritos padding to cushion her.
    On the floor again, she lifted her head, looked down at her pajamas, and frowned.
    “Mmmm...” she said. “Still not quite right.”
    The bedroom door swung open, and Marietta stood there, glaring down at her. She was wearing a slinky rayon nightgown with a plunging neckline and a wild purple leopard print. Her hairdo was somehow still perfect, as was her makeup.
    Marietta firmly believed in the single woman’s need to be fully prepared to receive male company should it present itself... day or night. If the house had caught on fire, Marietta wanted to look gorgeous just in case some hunk fireman happened to fling her over his shoulder.
    Yet another reason why Savannah sometimes wondered if her sister needed a brain transplant.
    “What the hell’s going on in here?” Marietta asked without preamble, her hands on her hips. ‘You’re making so blame much racket that I can’t get to sleep.”
    “Sorry,” Savannah said as she rolled her head left and right, trying to see her hair, to check how it was lying on the carpet. But it was too short.
    “What are you doing down there?” Marietta asked, nudging her with the toe of her marabou-plumed slide. “Did you roll out of bed, hit your head, and smack yourself stupid like you used to do when we were kids and sleeping four to a bed?”
    “No, but thank you for your concern. It’s touching. Hand me that mirror over there on the dresser, would you, please?”
    “Why?”
    “Because you’re so sweet and because I asked you nice. I even said ‘please.’ ”
    “Gran would be so proud,” Marietta grumbled as she trudged over to Savannah’s dresser and picked up the antique silver hand mirror that was one of Savannah’s few true treasures. Tammy had given it to her several years before for Christmas, along with a matching comb and brush.
    Using the set with its fine silver filigree and soft boar bristles made Savannah feel like a fine Victorian lady— like the woman who might have actually used it a hundred years ago. A nice change of persona after a day of helping Dirk wrestle down an ugly, dirty perp.
    Marietta handed the mirror to Savannah, who held it over her face and studied her hair and the way it lay on the carpet. Unfortunately, she had just had it cut, and it didn’t have the effect she had been hoping for.
    “I asked you what you’re doing down there,” Marietta repeated. “Collecting dust bunnies?”
    “Naw. I only gather those puppies up once a year when they’re big enough to knit sweaters with. I’m conducting an experiment.”
    “What kind of experiment?” Marietta yawned, diluting the illusion of genuine curiosity.
    Savannah laid the mirror on the floor beside her. “Reach down here and grab my ankles, would you?” Marietta frowned, as though she had been asked to unload fifty bales of cotton from a Mississippi barge. “Do