Chris raced through the next few pages as the character slipped away, too filled with the grief of her dad’s alcoholism and her husband’s death.
Surely somebody comes and saves her.
But four pages later, Meg was dead in the car.
The next morning her father found her.
Chris sat back in the booth and swallowed the fear that was emerging. Was Jules planning on killing herself?
He hurried through the rest of the manuscript to find out what happened, his finger flying down the pages. The remainder of the story was about how the daughter had left her father a note, asking him to get his life right. She wanted him to have joy and peace and live out the rest of his days in happiness.
And by The End, the father found his way, even through the grief of his daughter’s death.
Chris held his head in his hands. What was this, some kind of final good-bye? A three-hundred-page suicide note?
Or was it just a work of fiction? Some way for Jules to cope with her grief?
His hands were shaking as he gathered up the pages and headed home, feeling as desperate as the characters in the book. He knew so much yet had so little power to do anything about it.
And he had to factor in the possibility that Roy Fletcher was lying, making it all up.
Then there was this possibility of the strangest kidnapping on the planet. How did everything connect?
It was nearly midnight when Chris arrived home. He covered the manuscript with his jacket and ran toward the porch, unable to avoid the soaking rain.
As he shook the rain off himself, he looked up to see that his front door was open. Just a crack.
He glanced toward the window. It looked like every light in the house was off. Which was strange, since Addy was scared of the dark and always had three or four lamps going even when she wasn’t home.
An unsettled feeling came over Chris. He ran back to his truck, threw the pages inside the box that held Jason’s files, and grabbed his gun. He couldn’t tell if Addy’s rental car was there. He let her park in the garage when she visited.
He listened carefully as he crept up on the porch but didn’t hear anything.
He used his elbow to open the door. With his left hand, he slowly reached for the light switch. He flipped it, but nothing happened.
Chris turned, keeping his gun pointed into the dark house, and looked through the trees. His neighbor’s lights were on and they always lost electricity together in a storm.
Moving inside, he let his eyes adjust as he searched for any sound or movement. Everything was quiet.
“Addy?” he called. “Addy?”
Then a noise. He couldn’t identify it. It sounded like a dog’s claws against a wooden floor. A tapping. A stomping?
A moaning.
“Addy!”
Chris raced through the house, knocking his shin against the coffee table and his hip against the couch. He slipped on the rug but managed to keep from falling.
“Addy?”
No reply. But as he reached the kitchen, he could see a shadowy figure in a chair that had been pulled away from the table. He carefully approached, listening for any other movement, any other sign that someone else was in the house.
As he got closer, he could see it was Addy, tied to the chair. Her eyes were wide with terror.
“Addy, Addy . . . hold on. I’ll get you untied. Hold on.” He opened the drawer that held a flashlight and scissors, then put the flashlight under his arm and tried to untie the knot that bound her hands behind her back and behind the chair. He tried the scissors, but they weren’t sharp enough to cut through.
He went around to face her and pulled the duct tape off her mouth. She gasped for breath, and as he shone some light on her, he could see her left eye was swollen shut.
He cupped her face. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, tears rolling down her face. “Chris . . .”
“Okay. It’s okay. Stay calm. I’ve got to go get my knife.” It had the sharpest blade on it. It would cut through swiftly.
“Chris! Don’t leave me!”
“I’m not. It’s okay. It’s just in the bedroom.”
“No . . . no, please. Please don’t leave me.”
Chris squatted again next to her. “Did you see who did this to you?”
“He wore a mask. . . .”
“Did you see him leave?”
She shook her head. “No. I just remember waking up, tied to this chair.” Her jaw was trembling so much that her words were barely audible. “Please don’t leave me. It’s dark. . . .”
“I know. But I need that knife. I promise I won’t let anything else happen to you, okay? Will you trust me? For once in your life?” He tried a smile.
Tears still flowed down her cheeks, but she nodded.
Chris stood and turned toward his bedroom. His gun led the way.
Once he got there, he ran the flashlight beam over the room quickly. Nobody seemed to be around, but his room had been ransacked. Drawers pulled. The closet trashed. He’d deal with that later. He had to get back to Addy.
He moved toward the dresser drawer where he kept the knife but stopped short. There, among the clutter covering his bed—it was stabbed straight through his pillow. The only thing visible was the ivory handle.
“Subtle,” he grumbled.
Within seconds, he was back by Addy’s side. He cut the rope and freed her. She collapsed into his arms.
“It’s okay. . . .” He let her cry for a moment before getting her attention again. “Tell me what happened.”
She wiped her eyes. “One minute I’m about to make dinner. The next minute all the lights go out. All the electricity. I just thought it was the rain or something. And then . . .” She shook her head and covered her mouth like she was trying not to scream. “Then someone grabbed me from behind. And then I woke up . . . and I was alone and it was dark . . .”
Rage rose through his veins. “Did he say anything to you?”
She nodded. “He said . . . ‘Tell your brother to stop sniffing around.’ I think that’s when he hit me.” Her fingers found her swollen eye socket.
Chris put the light on her face and examined the wound. Nothing appeared to be broken, but he was no expert. She definitely needed to see a doctor.
“We have to get you out of here. Now.” He took her by the arm and helped her to her feet.
“Chris, what’s going on? Where?”
“I’ve got to send you home, Addy. It’s the only place you’ll be safe.”
“But—”
“I don’t want to hear any arguments, okay? It’s not safe for you here.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve got to figure out what’s going on. But I have a pretty good idea.” He took her toward his spare bedroom. “Get your things packed as fast as you can.”
Then a noise. They both turned, and Chris held a finger to his lips, shutting off the flashlight.
The front door was creaking open.
Chris stepped forward, pointing his gun in the direction of the door.
“Chris Downey?” a voice shouted.
Chris rushed the door, not able to see the person who had called out his name. That didn’t matter at the moment.
The tall figure that stood in the doorway was instantly flattened to the front porch. Chris pinned him with both knees and held the gun to his temple.
The man’s glasses were twisted against his nose, one of the lenses cracked. He fought but with little strength.
“Hey!” he yelled. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Who are you?” Chris roared. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m a . . . a . . . courier. That’s it. Just a courier.”
Chris slowly climbed off him but kept the gun pointed at him. “A courier. Really. At this time of night?”
“Yeah. Really.” The man took off his glasses and glanced at them before shoving them in his pocket. “I have a card and everything.” He took one o
ut of his pocket and handed it over.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to deliver that,” the man said, pointing to a manila envelope that had slid out of his hands when Chris tackled him.
Chris stooped to pick it up. “Why not mail the thing?”
“Mrs. Patterson doesn’t trust the U.S. Postal Service.” The man stood on shaky legs, unfolded a piece of paper, and drew a pen out of his pocket. “Sign here that you’ve received it,” he said flatly.
Chris signed and handed the pen and paper back. “Sorry about the . . . thing here.”
“Yeah, well, memories, right?”
The man walked to his electric car and drove away. Chris stared at the envelope. Addy was behind him now.
“What’s going on?”
Chris ripped open the flap. “I don’t know.” He pulled out the contents and dropped the envelope to the ground but couldn’t see anything with the electricity out. Addy brought him his flashlight. They both peered at the documents now being lit.
“What is this?” Addy asked.
Chris’s breath was cut short. He held a map and a deed. On top of it all was a sticky note that read, GET ME MY BOOK.
“Chris?”
“It’s where I can find Patrick Reagan. And if my gut’s right, Jules Belleno too.”
JULES DIDN’T REMEMBER falling asleep, but when she woke, the pages of Snow were neatly set on the other side of the bed, bookmarked where she’d left off, and she was snugly tucked into the covers, warm inside the shell of blankets.
But her feet were killing her. Even the slightest move of her ankles caused distressing pain. She yelped as she tried to move, and tears stung her eyes. She reached for the ibuprofen.
Although the curtains were drawn, the bright morning light reflected against the snow, bursting through the cracks like a high calling.
She stared up at the ceiling, those red, cryptic words staring back at her. She still hadn’t decided if Patrick was harmless or not. He seemed intent on helping her with something, even if his methods were slightly bizarre. But he also seemed fractured, emotionally and otherwise. She couldn’t be sure of how stable he was.
One thing was for sure. If Snow was about his wife, then there was no doubt that he loved her. It reminded her of what she’d shared with Jason. She and Patrick had that in common, and maybe that was the way into the mystery of his intentions—that commonality.
She took a deep breath. The pain was relentless. “Patrick?”
The door to her room was shut. She wasn’t sure he could hear her.
“Patrick?”
Soon the door opened. He stepped in with a tray of eggs and sausage. “Good morning.” He seemed in a chipper mood.
“Hi.” She tried to sit up but winced in pain.
“Your feet,” he said, his face turning troubled. “I’m going to have to take a look.” He set the food down and peeled back the covers. She felt his fingers pressing this way and that before he re-covered them with the blanket. “They’re healing. But it’s not going to be a cakewalk.”
Jules opened the ibuprofen and tossed four into her mouth. Bad for the liver, but she didn’t want another narcotic. She had to think clearly.
“I read almost the entire manuscript,” she said, nodding toward the pages as she eased her way into a sitting position. “One of the loveliest stories I’ve ever read. Truly beautiful.”
“Thank you.” He placed the tray over her legs. “Eat up. We have a lot of work to do today.” He stepped back, his expression troubled again. “You should brace yourself, Juliet. I believe you’re ready for this, but it’s not going to be easy.”
She smiled slightly. “Nothing so far has been.”
“True enough.”
She ate, but her appetite waned, partly from the pain, partly from the upset stomach caused by too much ibuprofen, and partly because she continued to wonder what was in store for her today.
When Patrick returned, he noticed her food was mostly untouched. “My cooking growing old?”
She touched his arm as he started to take her tray. It was the first time she’d deliberately touched him. He looked at her for a long moment. Neither of them moved.
“Patrick?”
“Yes?”
“Take me out there. I’m tired of being in this room.”
He left without saying a word, and Jules sighed. “Patrick,” she called, trying to sound light though her mood was darkening. She needed to use the bathroom and she wasn’t going for that bedpan again.
He returned. Pushing a wheelchair.
“That’s convenient,” she said with relief. His strong arms easily lifted her out of the bed and into the chair.
“Take your time,” he said, gesturing toward the bathroom. “I’ll be waiting out here.”
She struggled to get the wheelchair through the doorway. And getting herself onto the toilet was no easy task either. The whole ordeal took about twenty minutes, she guessed, with her feet and ankles throbbing relentlessly.
Out in the living room, the table was filled once again with all the paperwork she’d gone over a hundred times already. Her heart sank at the thought of diving into it again—or that manuscript patched together like Frankenstein’s monster.
Patrick handed her a cup of coffee. She drank it eagerly.
“Juliet,” he said softly, “do you believe I killed her?”
Midsip, Jules looked up. “I don’t know.”
“Surely you have a hunch.”
Jules kept her lips close to her mug. She blew the steam, trying to kill time while she thought through her answer. “Patrick, knowing what I know of you—the brief time that we’ve known each other—I would say that I do not believe you killed her.”
“Because I don’t come across as a barbaric personality.”
“Not usually.”
He smiled at her little joke. He seemed to be lightening up a bit. But as he sat down, he asked, “Isn’t there a time when killing is merciful?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sure you do.”
“I don’t know how to answer that.”
“I believe that sometimes what seems barbaric or cruel on the surface is actually an act of mercy.” He sighed as if she wasn’t getting what he was saying. “I need you to believe that I’m merciful, Juliet. Because what is going to happen today will seem . . . barbaric.”
“I don’t believe you killed her.” Jules met his eyes with resolve, but inside, that resolve quivered. “Even knowing how much you loved her. And I do believe that. I believe you loved her more than life itself.”
Suddenly tears filled his eyes and spilled over. He looked mortified but unable to stop them. Jules desperately wished she were not in the wheelchair. She wanted to drop by his side, tell him it was okay.
“I promised her I would,” he whispered. “She made me promise, and I said yes because I didn’t think it would . . . It was so horrible at the end. So . . . unreal.” He covered his face, then tried to wipe the tears, but they kept flowing. “I wanted to ease her . . . But I could only . . . And she . . .”
“Yes? What?”
“She hated me for it.” He sniffed and then regained composure. “And that’s life. Life doesn’t tie up all nice and neat. Some writers, though . . . some writers won’t go to the necessary places to find the necessary truth. Some writers hide behind their words. Hide behind an easy way out.” He stood, drank the rest of his coffee, and then looked at her. “You are to continue to work. Continue to dig. You must look harder, see everything there is to see, because when I return, it will be time for you to hear it all.”
“Wait. Where are you going?”
“I must go do something.”
“Please. Please, Patrick. Don’t leave me here. I don’t want to be alone.”
“You’ve grown used to my company?” He grinned. “I’m glad. I’ve grown used to yours as well.”
“I don’t want to wait any longer for what you have to tell me. The time is
now. Tell me now.”
“At the right moment. But our time is running out. I must go do this, and then I will return. Then we will talk.”
He walked to the rack near the door and put on a heavy coat. He wrapped a scarf around his neck and pulled on a warm fur hat. Lastly he put on his gloves.
“We know what going into the elements without proper attire can do, don’t we?”
She nodded in agreement, though reluctantly.
“Now, you behave yourself and get to work. I need you to get this all sorted out before I return.”
Jules looked at the stack. She was really no closer to figuring anything out than she had been before.
“Fine,” she sighed.
He opened the door and a blast of air caused her to shiver. She was already cold to begin with.
“Juliet,” he said, just before stepping out, “I want you to know that I know who you are.”
“I love when you go all esoteric on me,” she said with a small smile.
“I know you’re Blake Timble.”
In an instant, Jules’s body stung all over. She stared at him, unable to blink or move. She hadn’t been Blake Timble in a long time, and she had no intention of ever returning to him or speaking of him again. It had been a season of writing therapy that she’d impulsively sent off to a publisher to silence her father’s nagging insistence that she could write. She’d assumed the manuscript would be rejected, allowing her to put to rest the idea that she might be a real writer.
Except it wasn’t rejected. She’d written about her most private angst, now for the world to see.
Jules looked away, her eyes watering out of fear. She felt stripped naked of every piece of emotional cloth she’d hidden herself behind.
Patrick closed the door, and a violent shudder racked her body. She was as cold as if she’d been left outside.
“I can’t believe this,” Chris said after the doctor left the exam room. “I cannot believe this.”
Addy smiled, then winced. “At least it’s not broken. But it hurts to smile. So don’t be insulted if I don’t laugh at your jokes.”
“This is no joke.”
She sighed. “I know. I’m just trying to . . . make you feel better.”
They’d gone to the emergency room with a story that she’d fallen and hit her face on a coffee table. Everyone seemed to believe it. Right now Chris didn’t need the police involved. He had no idea whom he could trust.
Misery Loves Company Page 18
