Read VANISHED, A Romantic Suspense Novel (Edgars Family Novel) for Free Online

filled again.
    Abigail swiped at the moisture in her eyes and shoved the memory back into the corner of her mind. Good lord, she was maudlin tonight.
    The framed picture on the bedside table caught her eye. Brianna loved to have her picture taken. And why wouldn’t she? Her blonde good looks rivaled any movie star. So why would someone want to put out that light?
    Abigail drew in a deep breath. She couldn’t help her mother, and she couldn’t bring back Sister Rose Thomas. But she could help Brianna.
    Opening her laptop, she pulled on her reading glasses and started a new file. Then she closed her eyes and reached into her memory for the pictures she’d stored of Brianna’s townhouse. For now she’d avoid the bloodier ones. They’d have to wait until she could better handle seeing them. Blood always reminded her of the first pictures she’d ever stored in her brain—those of her mother lying dead on her bed, bloody and broken.
    Instead, she’d concentrate on the datebook. She snagged those images from the pile, shoving aside the one with the Sudoku puzzle and moved to the actual pages of the datebook. She typed every date and time for the past six months into her laptop.
    Finished, she sat back to study the pattern of her friend’s life. Brianna was a high-maintenance woman. She had weekly standing appointments for her hair, nails, pedicures and massages. Numerous men’s names filled the datebook, mostly for evening dates, but some for afternoon meetings and lunches.
    A set of dates were marked with asterisks and appeared on a six-week cycle. What was that all about?
    Then there were all the odd markings in the margins. Weird symbols that repeated, but at no constant interval. Was it some sort of code Brianna had developed or a shorthand? If so, what did they mean?
    Only three sets of initials appeared more than twice throughout the pages.
    D. K.
    P. H.
    R. B.
    Were they all business associates? Or was one of them the man in the picture with his arms around Brianna? And which one was responsible for her friend’s disappearance?
    All these questions, so few answers. Now her head hurt. Probably from frustration more than anything else. Exercise always seemed to help her focus.
    If she were at home back in Washington, she’d go to the gym and work out, or throw on her Nikes and run a few miles. But she wasn’t at home, didn’t know the area well enough to go for a run, and she was pretty sure her self-appointed bodyguard in the next room wouldn’t take kindly to finding her missing. She’d just have to find an alternative plan.
    Practicing her Kata might help. Performing the series of movements used in karate always cleared her grey cells and let her brain focus on a plan.
    She set her laptop on the side of the bed and lay her glasses on the bedside table. Moving as quietly as possible, she set the lamp and generic chair away from their standard position by the window to the far side of the other bed. In the center of the empty space, she stood, inhaling and exhaling slowly. Eyes closed, she cleared her mind of the evening’s events and concentrated on stretching. First her whole body, then each group of muscles.
    At home, she usually gave herself an imaginary foe—some criminal element or a mugger—a faceless attacker she could defend herself against. This time, however, she had two very real foes to give herself motivation as she practiced her skills. If she wanted to, she could imagine Brianna’s attackers. But that still gave her a faceless opponent. The other choice lay snoring on the other side of her wall.
    Abigail opened her eyes, a grin on her face.
    With Luke’s arrogant face in mind, she raised her foot in a high kick. It felt good. She forced herself to concentrate, and began the series of movements that would take her through the Kata.
     
    * * * * *
     
    In the colorless room the woman’s body lay sprawled facedown in the blood pooling beneath and around her on the hardwood floor. His pulse