His eyes bore into mine. I licked my dry lips. “Of course not,” I said, trying to interject a tone of lightness in my voice. “Why would you think that?”
He stared at me for another minute longer. “You better hurry,” he said.
“Okay,” I said and fled the kitchen.
I tore off my shirt and first ran into the bathroom for more deodorant as I was sweating. Why was I feeling so guilty? Just because I met Daphne for a coffee? She was my friend. Yes, I know he didn’t want me “wasting my time” with my friends, but it was my time to waste. It wasn’t like I was cheating on him.
Although … I pondered Stefan’s reaction as I struggled to tame my hair that seemed to have somehow gone even more wild. He was acting a little like a jealous husband.
Was that what this was all about? Did he think I was seeing someone else? Like Daniel?
I thought about the way he was when they met at Aunt May’s. He had been acting possessive then, too.
But, why? Did Chrissy say something?
I decided I couldn’t figure that out right now. What I needed to do was focus on getting ready.
I threw on a yellow sundress, fixed my make-up and my hair as best I could, and hurried back downstairs.
He was waiting for me, an impatient look on his face, but all of that melted away when he saw me. “Much better.” He took my hand and spun me around and gave me a wicked grin. “I can’t wait to take it off of you when we get home.”
I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, partly from the picture that just popped up in my head, and partly from relief—it appeared he might be done grilling me about my day. His smile turned wicked and he ushered me out of the house. “We better go before I change my mind.”
Dr. Ellison and his wife lived on the outskirts of town in a rustic two-story, four-bedroom house. The yard was exquisitely maintained and included a large bed of roses that framed one side of the house.
Inside, the house was equally impressive. It was decorated in a clean, understated way—dark wood—walnut, I thought, cream leather furniture, with splashes of red and orange pillows and throws. A vase of roses, presumably from the yard, stood on the mantle. It even smelled clean and understated—a combination of lemon furniture polish and cinnamon.
Stefan immediately set to work charming Sue, our hostess, while I wandered through the living room.
The doctor handed me a glass of wine as I admired a delicate crystal butterfly. “Thank you, Dr. Ellison.”
“Call me Pete,” he said.
Pete was a tall and distinguished looking in a quiet way, with short, close-cropped brown hair and glasses. He looked more like a retired general than a doctor.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
I took a quick swallow of wine to hide my discomfort as I frantically racked my brain for something, anything.
He smiled kindly. “It’s okay. I actually didn’t expect you to.”
I smiled back, the tension in my chest easing. “So, how do I know you?”
“I was your doctor during your hospital stay fifteen years ago.”
What were the chances?
I glanced over my shoulder to see if Stefan was listening, but he seemed engrossed in his conversation with Sue. “So, I guess I should thank you for saving my life.”
He smiled slightly as he shook his head. “No, that wasn’t me. I took over once you were stable. Physically, that is.” He paused, taking note of my puzzled expression. “I’m a psychiatrist.”
Oh great. What the hell was I supposed to say to that? Forget talking to him about employment opportunities. How soon could I possibly talk Stefan into leaving? Maybe whisper something in his ear about how hot it was … so hot I thought I might need to start removing my dress.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, or bring up unpleasant memories,” Pete said.
I tried to smile. “Yeah, well, I’m not particularly proud of that time of my life.”
He shrugged. “You were young. And clearly you survived it.”
“Yes, luckily.”
He paused, sipping his wine. “So, how has it been being back in that house?”
“Fine.” Was he really going to go there? God, what a nightmare. Hopefully, he would take the hint with how short my answers were and change the subject.
He didn’t. “Have you seen the ghosts yet?”
I stared at him. He smiled slightly, like he was trying to soften his questions. “It’s not like it’s a big secret that the house is haunted.”
“Yeah, well, there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
He cocked his head. “Even I’ve seen things there that have made me wonder.”
I found myself intrigued despite myself. “Like what?”
“One day, I was dropping something off and was standing in the living room. Your aunt went in the kitchen to get something, and while I was standing there, I saw movement in the corner of my eye on the second floor. It was like this white … mist, I guess, that floated down the hallway and disappeared.” He laughed a bit self-consciously. “When I asked your aunt about it, if there was anyone else in the house, she said it was Mad Martha.”
I was surprised at how similar that story was to what Daphne saw in the house. Did Mad Martha make a point of showing herself to visitors throughout the years? “Yeah, I’ve heard stories like that before.”
“How about you? Do you have any stories like that?”
The bit of a white nightgown disappearing into Chrissy’s room. My mouth felt suddenly dry. I shook my head. “Not really.”
His eyes narrowed from behind his glasses. “Not really?”
I swallowed more wine. This was just getting weirder and weirder. As if the conversation wasn’t bad enough, the careful way he was watching me was really starting to get on my nerves. Had I said something to him years ago about seeing ghosts? Or forgetting things? Had I confessed the same things to him that I had to Daphne? “Well, sure. It’s an old house and I’ve seen a few … odd things there. But nothing that can’t be explained by a trick of the light or an overactive imagination.”
He smiled, a smile that didn’t reach the cold, almost predatory expression in his eyes. “Yes, there’s no question that house plays tricks on the mind.” He took a step closer to me and dropped his voice. “Are you sleeping okay? And how about your headaches? Do you still have them?”
I took a step backwards. This had gone far enough. “Hey, did I miss something?” I tried for a joking tone. “Don’t I need an appointment for you to be asking these kinds of questions?”
Finally, he got the hint. He lifted his hands and backed away, a smile on his face that tried for reassuring, but felt patronizing. Christ, did I need to hit him over the head with a hammer? He must be a terrible psychiatrist to not understand body language—no wonder I didn’t get any better after talking to him fifteen years ago. “Of course. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable. Sometimes I get a little too carried away.” He lowered his hands. “Would you like to come in and talk? I’m happy to make an appointment if you ever feel like you need to chat with someone.”
“Hey, you two, dinner is ready,” Sue called out in a cheerful voice. The perfect interruption. I could have kissed her.
I spent the rest of the evening making sure Pete never got another chance to talk to me alone. What in God’s name had I said to him all those years ago? Why was he following up now? Had someone said something to him? Maybe Barry’s wife, Celia? Or could it have been Daphne?
No, Daphne wouldn’t have said anything.
Would she?
Time ticked by agonizingly slowly as we lingered over dinner, dessert, and coffee, before Stefan finally indicated that it was time to leave.
“How did your conversation with Pete go?” Stefan asked, once we were in the car. “Did he have any good leads for
you?”
“Fine,” I answered shortly. “How did you meet him?”
Stefan glanced at me, but I kept my head straight ahead, watching the taillights of the car in front of us.
“I was talking to one of the local attorneys here, asking him if there were any administrative positions open. He didn’t know of any at the moment, but he thought Pete might have some leads for other jobs here in town. I called Pete and he invited us for dinner.”
I turned my face away to stare out the side window. How likely was it that the attorney Stefan called just happened to give him the name of the psychiatrist who treated me fifteen years ago? Was this yet another person in Redemption who wished I would leave?
“Who was the attorney?” I asked.
“Does it matter?” Stefan asked. “Do you really think you know him?”
“I might.”
Stefan paused. “I take it your conversation with Pete didn’t go very well.”
It wasn’t lost on me that he didn’t answer my question. How much should I push? And how much of the truth should I tell him? “It went fine,” I said again.
“So, what did he say about employment leads?”
I gritted my teeth. “Nothing. We didn’t talk about jobs.”
“What? Why not? You know that was the reason we were meeting them tonight. How could you let this opportunity slip through your fingers?”
I sunk down in my seat, feeling like a failure for the second time that day. “It didn’t come up,” I said.
“Well, you should have brought it up.” He sighed loudly. “What a wasted opportunity.”
I didn’t answer, just kept my eyes trained outside the window.
“Rebecca, do you want to find a job?”
I jerked my head in surprise to look at him. His attention was on the road, but he glanced at me with the corner of his eye. “Of course,” I said, even though that was a lie. “Why would you think I don’t?”
“Because it seems to me you’re not taking this job hunt very seriously. Where did you go today?”
“Today? We just went to dinner.”
He sighed loudly. “I meant this afternoon. What businesses did you go to? What jobs were you checking on?”
Oh no. “The coffee shop,” I said, although the moment it was out of my mouth, I wondered if they were even hiring. “Although I don’t think they’re hiring right now,” I amended, hoping to God I wasn’t going to get caught in an even deeper lie. “And I went to a couple of retail stores.” I crossed my fingers, praying he wouldn’t ask which ones.
He was quiet for a few minutes, watching the cars across from us at a stop sign. “It’s only temporary,” he said, his voice gentle. “And we really do need the money.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m trying.”
“Try harder.” His tone was softer than his words though. I nodded and went back to staring out the window, hating how this simple, little lie kept getting bigger and bigger.
It was like he knew I wasn’t telling the truth. And was trying to trip me up.
Why would he do that?
We had almost made it home when it suddenly occurred to me that he had never asked what Pete and I had talked about.
I wondered why.
Chapter 32
I pulled into the grocery store parking lot, turned the car engine off, and massaged my face with my fingertips.
I was beyond exhausted. I hadn’t slept in two days.
Instead, I laid awake both nights, listening to the creaking and groaning of the house and Stefan’s deep breathing, while watching the hands slowly tick away on the clock. The first night, around two in the morning when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I quietly got up to resume my search for the locket. After an hour of digging around in the family room, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Sure it was Chrissy, I shoved everything back in its place and went to stand near the window. Except it wasn’t Chrissy. It was Stefan.
“What are you doing down here?” he asked, rubbing sleep from his face. His eyes were pools of dark shadows.
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said. “I was just getting some tea.”
He looked around. “In the family room?”
“Do you want some?” I asked, making my way to the kitchen. He nodded, and I hurried past him.
After that, I decided it was too risky to search at night.
While I was fairly certain I hadn’t sleepwalked, I worried that could change at any time. At least if I was awake, I was most definitely in control. Mad Martha couldn’t possess me if I was awake. Right? It had to be right, because the alternative was unthinkable. Besides, I’m sure I would know it if I was being possessed during my waking hours.
So, as long as I continued my search for the locket, I wouldn’t allow myself to sleep, with the exception of a quick cat nap here and there when I knew Chrissy was either out of the house, or with her father … when I knew she was safe.
I scrubbed at my face again and reached for my now ever-present cup of coffee, before checking my purse again.
Yes, the knife was still there.
Oddly, it made me feel safer, having it there. I found myself reaching for it constantly throughout the day, almost like I was reassuring myself of its presence. It made no sense logistically, but somehow, it made me feel like I was in charge.
I slid out of the car and headed into the grocery store.
Along with checking (and double-checking) the knife in my purse, I had also become hyper-vigilant about what I ate and drank. I insisted on doing all the cooking. If I came downstairs to a pot of coffee, I would dump it out and make it fresh. I started eating only foods that I knew Stefan or Chrissy ate—I refused to touch anything that was typically “mine,” especially if it was already open.
Mad Martha’s words haunted my thoughts. I think Nellie is poisoning me.
In the mostly-empty store, I hunched over my cart, and furtively made my selections. I was glad there were so few people—the last thing I wanted was to run into someone I knew. I found myself peering down every aisle, my eyes quickly darting from side to side, to ensure I saw no one I recognized, or anyone glaring at me, before choosing an aisle.
Part of me wondered if I looked like a crazy person, peering up and down the aisles the way I was. I knew I should probably take a deep breath, and not worry about running into anyone. So, what if I did? So, what if that person was hostile? But the bigger part of me just wanted to get my groceries and go home.
I filled my cart, paid, and headed out of the store.
Becca.
The word was whispered, and I barely heard it over the automatic sliding door. I jerked to a stop, twisting my head to either side, trying to decipher where it had come from and who had spoken it. In front of the store was a display of outdoor furniture, including some clay fire pots and bird baths, but as far as I could see, there was no one there. A handful of cars were in the parking lot, and one lone grocery store employee rounded up carts. His back was to me, his entire focus on trying to jam as many carts as possible into a line in front of him.
I must have imagined it. My nerves were stretched nearly to the breaking point. I was going to have to do something, and soon. I needed sleep. I couldn’t keep living this way.
Becca.
I quickly turned again, and saw a pile of rags in the corner that I had assumed was part of the outdoor furniture display slowly knit together to form a figure. The homeless woman.
I stumbled backwards a couple of steps as I tried to talk, but my mouth was dry with fear, and nothing came out.
She grinned at me, revealing a lack of teeth. “Becca,” she hissed, creeping forward, her broken smile widening.
“No,” I whimpered, backing away as she continued to skulk forward. I could smell the stink on her—something rotting and dead. “Go away.”
“Becca. Bew
are. You’re in danger.”
Danger? My head snapped forward. Could this woman know something? “Danger? What do you mean?”
The homeless woman paused, looked uncertain, her smile wavering.
I took two steps toward her. “What do you mean I’m in danger?” I said, my voice getting louder. “What do you know? What do you know?”
She began to cower away from me, but I continued my advance on her. This was my chance. Maybe I would finally get some answers. “What do you know?” I said, my voice sounding more like a shriek. “Tell me!”
A hand grabbed my arm from behind. “Becca, what are you doing?”
I spun around, ready to battle. It was Daniel, staring at me, his brow furrowed.
I whirled back around, only to see the homeless woman shuffle back to the corner, back bent, muttering to herself. “I … she …”
Daniel gently started steering me away. “That’s just old Maude. She’s harmless.”
Harmless? She certainly didn’t feel harmless.
Daniel was looking closely at me. I forced myself to laugh. “I was having trouble understanding what she was saying to me.”
“She was probably just asking you for food. Or money.”
I ran my hand through my hair. “You’re probably right.”
Daniel continued to study me, his eyes filled with concern. He was still holding onto my arm, the warmth of his hand practically burning me. “Becca, are you okay?” he asked, his voice low.
Am I okay? I considered the question. I had a knife in my purse. I was afraid my stepdaughter, and maybe myself, were being possessed by ghosts. And I had just been momentarily convinced that a harmless homeless woman would have all the answers.
No, I didn’t think I was okay at all.
“I … I haven’t been sleeping very well,” I finally said. “I guess I’m overtired. Not really thinking straight.”
“Are you still having headaches?”
I nodded. The only thing keeping the headaches at bay was how much ibuprofen I was taking—every four hours like clockwork, I would pop a couple of pills.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
It Began With a Lie: A gripping psychological thriller (Secrets of Redemption Book 1) Page 25
