line yanked the skin on her hand and jolted her awake. This time, though, the fine hairs on her skin prickled, along with the sudden shock of pain. A tall, shadowy figure stood over her bed. Clutching her throat, she gasped. “Easy, Isabelle,” the figure said in a sultry, feminine voice as dark as the room. “I’m not here to hurt you.” She slowly slid up into a sitting position. “You’re not?” “No. I’m a friend of Sean’s.” “A friend of Sean’s?” She peered in the darkness, but only discerned a willowy outline. Did this woman...phantom...really know Sean? Or was she an axe murderer who’d somehow climbed up the exterior stucco wall, scaled the wrought iron rail, landed on the balcony, crept into her bedroom, and now waited to slice off her victim’s head? “Are you dead, too?” “Yes.” “What’s your name?” “Xavia.” “Is that with an X or a Z?” “X.” Isabelle relaxed a bit. An axe murderer wouldn’t engage in chitchat. Maybe this woman really was a friend of Sean’s.
