He Kills Me, He Kills Me Not

her sister’s home after the attack wasn’t pleasant for either of them. Heather had tried to be supportive—at first anyway—but the strain of living with someone who often woke up screaming at night was hard on a family with small children.
    And then there was Heather’s husband, John, the real reason Amanda and Heather rarely spoke anymore. John was controlling, a pathological liar, and he thought any woman living in his house was fair game for his attentions. He’d certainly had no aversion to Amanda’s scar. Of course, her face wasn’t what interested him.
    Amanda had tried to talk to her sister about John’s inappropriate behavior, but Heather was unwilling to listen and began to treat her as if she were the one coming on to John. That’s when Amanda had left, and aside from a phone call at Christmas or on the anniversary of their parents’ deaths, she and Heather rarely spoke to each other.
    But after Carolyn O’Donnell’s murder and Chief Richards’ dire warnings, Amanda longed for the love and support of the only family she had left. Before she lost her nerve, she dialed her sister’s number and pressed the speaker button so she could prepare her dinner while they talked.
    “Hello?” Heather’s soft, southern accent came on the line.
    Amanda’s hand slipped and she came dangerously close to slicing off a finger. Tears started in her eyes and she realized how badly she missed her baby sister. “Heather? It’s Mandy.”
    Complete silence greeted Amanda from the other end of the line. She had to look at the light on the phone to be sure Heather hadn’t hung up.
    “Amanda?” Her sister’s voice was pitched low as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear her. “Are you okay? Is something wrong?”
    Amanda, not Mandy . She closed her eyes and swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Does something have to be wrong for me to call?”
    “No, of course not. I’m surprised to hear from you, that’s all.”
    “How are you and my two adorable nieces? How’s John?” Amanda nearly gagged on her brother-in-law’s name.
    “We’re fine, we’re all fine. The girls are going to that new elementary school that was being built when you left. I volunteer in the office three days a week.” A heavy sigh sounded on the other end of the line. “You didn’t call to talk about my volunteer work. What’s going on?”
    Chop . She brought the knife down on a cucumber, then rapidly sliced it into neat little chunks.
    “Amanda?”
    “There was a murder in Shadow Falls yesterday.” Her words rushed out so fast she wasn’t sure Heather would understand her.
    “A murder? How terrible. Was it someone you knew?”
    Thank God, no. Not this time. She grabbed a carrot and starting slicing it into slivers. “No, I didn’t know her.”
    “Did it trigger one of those awful nightmares?”
    She paused with the knife in the air. “No, no nightmares.” Of course, she was so exhausted when she finally slept she was too tired to dream.
    “Well, that’s good. That’s really good. Sounds like you’ve worked through your issues.”
    Her issues ?
    Chop.
    Her aching knuckles made her realize how tightly she was gripping the knife handle. She relaxed her fingers. “Did I mention the murdered woman had a rose in her hand?” Chop . “The police think it’s the same man who attacked me and killed Dana.” Chop .
    “Oh, my God. They think it’s the same guy? What are you going to do?”
    Obviously staying with her sister again wasn’t an option, since Heather hadn’t made that offer. What did Amanda expect, that Heather would suddenly believe her version of what had happened at her house instead of her husband’s version?
    “Amanda, are you still there?”
    “Yeah, sorry. I’m sure it’s not the same guy. Besides, I have a great security system and I’ve changed my name. I’ll be okay.”
    “Are you sure? If you need—”
    “I’m fine, really. Don’t worry. I have to hang up now. Some friends are picking me up in a few minutes to go shopping,” she lied. “Bye, Heather.” She disconnected the call but left the phone line open so her sister couldn’t call her back.
    Not that she would.
    Swiping at the tears on her cheeks, she looked down at the countertop in front of her. Good grief. She’d chopped all of the vegetables into tiny pieces. Hacked was a better word. Not to mention a banana and an apple she didn’t remember putting on the counter. Obviously, she still had “issues,” but