It moved!
That chill against the back of her neck returned, along with an urgency.
I have to open it now, before he returns!
He who?
She sat up. Why did I think that?
Steve was downstairs working. Why should she care if he came up here?
Sami shook her head and knelt to her task. A few minutes later, she worked the panel loose and found a hidden compartment between the floor joists holding three old, bound journals and an antique-looking pencil.
Her heart raced as she pulled them out. Inside the first was a name and date. Evelyn Beaulieux, 1898.
Evelyn… The name was familiar. She looked at the others, dated 1901 and 1906, but the name was different.
Evelyn Simpson.
Her journals!
Sami’s heart raced as she replaced the secret panel, closed the window seat, and hurried downstairs to her office. Steve still worked behind his closed door. She tucked the tomes into the bottom of her filing cabinet, under income tax paperwork.
Why am I hiding them? she thought as she closed the drawer. I should share these with Steve.
She reached down to open the drawer again and was immediately seized by an unnatural fear.
No!
The voice spoke inside her head but sounded like it came from elsewhere. She looked around, startled, and decided the journals could wait for a while.
Maybe after Steve went to bed.
Chapter Seventeen
Steve drove to town Monday morning, leaving Sami alone. She encouraged him to go and take as much time as he needed for his appointments. He was headed to AA. She headed to her office as soon as the truck’s back bumper disappeared into the woods.
Sami resisted the urge to start at the end of the journals and work her way back. What exactly happened to Evelyn remained unknown. The local papers speculated that George killed her and the kids. Back then, it was far from the days of CSI and crime labs. Some folks surmised she took the kids and ran after shoving George down the well. Others discounted that theory, because she didn’t take any personal effects from the house. Also, investigators found some ominously shredded clothing remnants in the master bedroom. And no one ever heard from her again.
Sami’s hands trembled as she opened the first journal and began reading. The first few entries were penned by an Evelyn fresh out of college. She graduated with a degree in English literature from Florida State College, quite an achievement for a woman back then. Her words sounded happy and full of hope.
Then she met George Simpson.
Encouraged by her parents—pressured was more the word Sami would have chosen—she married the rich shipping baron. She took it in stride and made the best out of the situation. She appeared relatively happy. Things seemed okay for the first year or so.
Then they went downhill.
George became increasingly short-tempered and jealous. When he was home, she wasn’t allowed to go anywhere alone, otherwise she was accused of infidelity. Only when he was at work could she go out and do household errands. She wasn’t allowed to visit her family in Miami, unless he went with her.
Two hours later, Sami made it halfway through the first journal. It was difficult to read, partly because most of it was written in ink that had badly faded over the years, and partly because of Evelyn’s narrow, sinewy script.
Sami stretched and took a break, careful to hide the journals in the bottom drawer and lock the cabinet. It wasn’t unusual for her to lock their personal papers, so Steve wouldn’t suspect anything.
She wondered how Steve’s appointments were going and how much longer he’d be. Which set her mind on a dangerous path which she didn’t want to tread—did she have time to snoop?
Once thought, the idea wouldn’t go away, growing like a bad itch to scratch until she finally gave in to the urge to check his computer. She went into his office and turned on the computer, remembering the password from the other night.
He hadn’t changed his password, so maybe he was telling the truth. She mentally smacked herself for not asking Matt about it, not that it mattered now. Steve was trying.
Wasn’t he?
She searched the files and found the file he’d worked on last. It wasn’t bad, certainly a lot better than the last time she checked. He’d made quite a few changes and it flowed much better.
A little more snooping, and she found and opened another file he’d worked on that weekend.
* * * *
Steve and Dr. Raymond walked the short distance from the meeting to his office. When they were settled, Dr. Raymond asked him about the weekend. Steve recounted the gallbladder attack. Then he told him about Dr. Smith’s observation.
“What do you think?” Steve asked.
Dr. Raymond leaned back in his chair and templed his fingers. “My opinion isn’t important. What’s important is what do you think about it?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What do you think about the fact that you’re lying to your wife about wanting kids?”
“I’m not lying to her…exactly.”
“You told her you wanted kids, and now you don’t. Instead of being intimate with her, you push her away and make excuses.”
“If I tell her, she may leave.”
“I can play Devil’s advocate and ask what do you think would happen if you don’t tell her.”
He sighed. “If I don’t tell her, she might leave. No woman who wants to have sex with her husband will tolerate being turned down all the time.”
“True.”
Steve chewed on that. “It’s not that I don’t want to sleep with her. I’m afraid to. Do you think the gallbladder attack was my body trying to create an excuse?”
“What do you think?”
“Would you stop that?”
“Sorry.” He smiled. “Do I think your body was trying to send you silent signals? I doubt it, not in the way you’re thinking. But the accumulated stress and conflicting feelings you have possibly contributed to the severity of the attack, yes.”
“We’ll be married seven years at the end of next week.”
“Do you think you owe it to her to be honest? Maybe you’re not giving her enough credit. Maybe if she leaves it’ll be because of how you’re treating her, not because you’ve changed your mind about having children. Perhaps you’re taking away her ability to freely choose her path by not giving her all the information.”
Steve couldn’t argue with that.
They tossed it back and forth for the rest of the session. Afterward, Steve got the lab work done and returned home.
* * * *
At first, Sami didn’t understand what she read. Most of it was garbage, random letters and spaces mixed in with regular prose, like a monkey trying to type Macbeth and missing the works of Shakespeare by a country mile. Toward the end of the file, more things popped out through the garbage. A word or phrase here and there.
Evelyn…George…poison…bitch.
A chill settled over her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something move. Wheeling around, she thought she caught a glimpse of a woman standing in the office doorway.
She blinked, and it was gone.
A full-body shudder enveloped her and she shut the computer down. No telling what it was, probably sleepwriting to go along with his bouts of sleepwalking. Nothing to worry about.
She closed his office door after checking everything was in its correct place. Sami made it back to the kitchen in time to hear the Ford in the driveway.
Perfect timing, she thought, shuddering again.
* * * *
Steve sat in the Ford for a moment, staring at the house. A wave of rage washed over him, scaring him. He wanted to get out of the car and storm into the house, but at the same time fear of his actions forced him to remain still until it passed. Something about a woman in the turret window—he looked and saw no one, but it stood slightly ajar. Sami probably left it open to air out the attic.
The
taste of whiskey in his throat again.
God, does this ever end?
He swallowed hard. Another wave, this time of pain, ran through him. Like someone stabbing a red-hot poker in his side. He gasped for air, slumped over in the seat, unable to move.
Eventually the pain subsided and he climbed out, stumbling. Sami must have seen him because she met him halfway.
“What’s wrong?”
“Hurts.”
Worry painted her face. She helped him the rest of the way and settled him on the couch.
“Let me call an ambulance.”
“And tell them what?” He cut her off more harshly than he intended. He took a deep breath and tried again. “I’ve got another appointment on Thursday with Dr. Smith. If I can make it until then, I will.” He tried to smile to relieve her concern and barely succeeded. “I guess I’ll take a pill after all. Can you get it, please?”
She raced to oblige and soon returned with a glass of ice water and the medicine. After helping him off with his shoes she went upstairs and returned with several pillows. “Rest down here. I’ll bring you your computer later, if you want.”
Sami leaned over and kissed him on the forehead and handed him the remote. A wave of guilt swept through him. She would be a good mother, but he couldn’t say the same about his potential parenting skills. He was too afraid to find out the hard way, after screwing up a baby.
“Thank you, Sami.” She smiled and returned to her office.
With the TV tuned to HBO he tried to lose himself in Sopranos reruns, miserably failing. Pain, and a little nausea, washed over him, but at least in ever-gentler waves. Eventually, the medicine caught up with him and he fell asleep.
* * * *
Steve found himself in a small, dark room. An old kerosene lamp sat on the table, and his clothes smelled smoky. His dream double sat writing a note at the table.
“Old bitch thought she’d POISON me,” his dream self said. “Showed her. And those kids. They were in on it. Just wanted my money. Well I showed them all!”
He slapped the pencil down on the table and turned to the shelves behind him. Boxes of currency, bills and coins, and various things stacked in no apparent order.
He smiled, not in control of his actions. It had to be a dream, but he couldn’t pull himself out of it no matter how hard he tried. He rubbed his side and shoved his chair back from the rough-hewn table.
There was still over half a bottle of whiskey left. He took a swig right from the bottle.
Holy hell, this dream is real! He tasted the whiskey’s bite and felt its warmth roll all the way down his throat.
He blew the lamp out and forgot the note in his excitement. She would pay, by God. Just like those kids paid, only he’d take it out of her flesh. He wasn’t no pervert, he wouldn’t do that to a kid.
But to a poisoning bitch—who’d blame him?
When he stepped out of the room, a wave of pain hit him, and he screamed in agony.
Steve woke up on the floor next to the couch, the pain subsiding. Sami crouched over him, trying to wake him.
“Steve? Oh my God. Are you okay?”
He sat up, the pain fading, but with a foul taste in his mouth.
She sniffed at him. “Why do you smell like a campfire?”
He barely made it to the downstairs bathroom in time to vomit.
Sami wet a washcloth and pressed it to his forehead. “I’m calling Dr. Smith. You are not waiting until Thursday.”
He didn’t argue with her.
Chapter Eighteen
“So you like me so much you make yourself sick to see me?” Dr. Smith studied Steve’s chart as he walked over to the hospital bed.
He looked at Sami. “You must be Mrs. Corey.”
They shook hands. “I suppose I must.”
He laughed. “I bet she keeps you on your toes.”
Steve smiled wanly. “She does. Hey, Doc, will I be able to play the piano after the operation?” At Sami’s urging, they got permission from Dr. Smith to mellow the patient. The nurses put a mild sedative in Steve’s IV. Steve wasn’t a needles kind of person, and he felt sick enough as it was.
Dr. Smith smiled. “Can you play it now?”
Steve shook his head and laughed like it was the funniest joke in the world. Sami looked at the doctor.
“The drugs have kicked in,” she said.
He laughed. “Yes, I see. I guess since you’re the only consenting adult in the room, I need to talk to you.”
Steve laughed again, sounding more than a little drunk. “Consenting adult—that’s a good one, Doc.”
Dr. Smith and Sami both smiled. “Steve, you stay here, I need to borrow your wife for a few minutes, okay?”
Steve waved to them as they stepped outside. “Bring her back in one piece, Doc.” He laughed and turned his attention back to Cartoon Network.
“Well, I gather he was always a happy, mellow drunk?”
“Usually. He was nastier when he tried to stay sober between drunks.”
“That’s what we need to talk about.” He looked around and found a vacant room nearby, closing the door behind them. “I called the hospital after I talked to you and gave them orders. I know he had blood work pulled today, but those labs won’t be accessible to me yet, so they drew new ones.”
Sami didn’t see why this was so important to tell her in private. “And?” He had a point, and she wanted him to hurry up and get to it.
The doctor sighed. “His blood alcohol came back .03.”
Sami felt the blood drain from her face. “That’s not possible.”
From the doctor’s expression, she realized how naive that statement sounded. She grabbed a nearby chair since her knees wouldn’t support her.
“That’s not possible,” she repeated, wanting to say something, but too stunned to form new words. She tried to sort her thoughts. “He’s been sober over five years. We don’t have any alcohol in the house.”
“He got it somewhere. I’m having them rerun the tests to make sure.”
She thought back to what she knew, the early years where she scoured the cabinets for hidden bottles, his desk, his car.
“Wait a minute.” She grasped at hope. “He was asleep on the couch for over an hour before. I could see him from my office, and I know he didn’t move off that couch. Then, he got sick and threw up, and I brought him here. It took them at least a half hour before they drew his blood, and it took me nearly twenty minutes to drive us here. That’s almost two hours. He didn’t have anything to drink in that time. I know, because I was there. To be pulling a .03 he would have had a drink in that time and he didn’t. I’d swear to it.”
There, that solved it. The lab results were wrong. Had to be. He couldn’t have been drinking. She would have known.
Wouldn’t she?
“Where was he before he was on the couch?”
The triumphant smile froze on her face. “He had a meeting this morning, the appointment with Dr. Raymond, then the lab work. After that, home.”
That was a honking big time gap, and she knew it. He may have pulled a .03, but he could have been drinking on the way home and been a lot drunker by the time he arrived.
He had taken his time getting out of the car.
But she didn’t smell anything on his breath, and there were no bottles in the car.
There was the smoky smell. Funny she hadn’t noticed it when he first got home, just when she helped him back onto the couch. He might have stopped at the day-use campground at the park entrance on his way home and dumped the evidence in one of the trash cans—
She held her head in her hands. “I do not need this right now. Is there any chance this is a mistake?”
He nodded. “Of course there is. I just wouldn’t count on it.”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I can’t go through that again. I won’t. Jesus Christ.” She closed her eyes. So much for getting her hopes up and wishing Steve was trying this time.
Her inn
er cynic felt vindicated. Her heart, however, was broken.
The doctor placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Let’s get him feeling better, then we can schedule an intervention if that’s what you want.”
She nodded. “Thanks.”
They returned to Steve’s room and found him asleep. She sat watching him until nine o’clock, wondering what to do.
Calling Matt topped her list. She needed him, needed his help. She couldn’t do an intervention alone.
And maybe she needed him to help her pack and move back to Ohio.
Without Steve.
She couldn’t believe Steve was drinking again. There were no signs.
Well, okay, there was the irritable behavior.
The writer’s block.
The fights.
The lack of sex drive.
She threw her head back. “Oh shit. I’m such a moron,” she whispered.
All the signs were there.
They had Steve on the surgical schedule for eight in the morning. She checked with the charge nurse to make sure she had the time right and headed home. The horses would be hungry, and she couldn’t stop crying.
“Goddammit!”
She sat in the driveway and pounded her fists against the steering wheel.
“I’m a stupid fucking dumb-ass!”
She grabbed a flashlight from the glove box and ransacked the truck. No booze.
She fed the horses, which were obviously annoyed by her tardiness.
Calling Matt still topped her list, but first she ripped all the cushions off the sofa and pulled it away from the wall to look under it.
Nothing.
His office was next. Every drawer, every computer bag and bookshelf, and even the small, empty closet.
Nothing.
She ripped the kitchen apart, already knowing what she wouldn’t find.
Cell phone in hand, she collapsed in the middle of the ugly linoleum floor and called Matt, her composure shattered.
* * * *
Out of the Darkness Page 12
