Whispers in the Night. Diane Pershing
a sixth sense about cons, Miz Thorne. Like I said, Paul’s innocent.”
“You have quite a champion,” the woman said, her face reflecting her lingering doubt.
He didn’t blame her. The tangible proof of his innocence wasn’t available, and she wasn’t thrilled with another ex-con’s “sixth sense.”
All he could do was nod his gratitude to Hank and wait for the next question.
“And you were in jail how long?”
“Four years.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, my. A policeman in jail for four years.” Her face reflected a mixture of sympathy and horror. “That must have been tough.”
He felt his jaw tense at the effort to keep his expression neutral. “I survived.”
Barely, he thought. Everything she was imagining, all that she’d read about cops in jail—gang rapes, brawls, weapons made out of kitchen utensils—he’d seen it all, and even taken part in some of it. Never being able to turn your back, making sure you were so strong they were scared of you. Yeah, he’d survived. By being terrified every day and night of those four years, and never, ever letting it show.
He watched her expression as she made up her mind about him. He wasn’t aware he’d been holding his breath until, still obviously doubtful, she said, “Well, if Hank trusts you, I guess that’s good enough for me.”
A small stab of disappointment hit him in the gut. He should have been glad, should have congratulated himself on getting the job, on taking the first step toward clearing his name. But all he felt was let down.
What had he expected? A ringing endorsement of his superior character? That Kayla Thorne would look at him and just know he could do the work? That he would be responsible, would put in long hours and not skip corners? Would be honest and reliable? The way he’d used to be, back before his life had changed one-hundred-eighty degrees from relative heaven to a hell blacker than a starless night? Maybe that was too much to expect of anybody.
“Good.” Hank slapped Paul on the back and handed over the toolbox he’d been carrying. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Get started, Paul, okay? Make a list of the supplies you’ll be needing and we’ll take care of it tomorrow.”
“You’re leaving?” she asked Hank, and Paul could tell she was not pleased.
“Got to get to the Gillespies’,” he told her, his gold teeth glinting as he smiled reassuringly. “I’m late as it is. I’ll swing by and pick you up about four,” he told Paul, then hurried off.
Kayla watched him leave, nearly called out that she’d changed her mind and to take this hulking, smileless man with him.
But she didn’t. She’d said he could work for her, and at the least, he deserved a chance. Had she expected an armed guard to come with the package?
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, you do what you need to do, and I’ll just…be around,” she finished lamely, and headed into the house.
Knowing she was being a coward, she kept out of his way all day, staying as busy as possible. She took down curtains to have them cleaned, did a couple of loads in the ancient washing machine, puttered in the garden for a while. Basically she managed not to be wherever Paul Fitzgerald was.
At lunchtime, she asked him if he’d brought lunch, and when he told her not to worry about that, she made an extra ham and cheese sandwich and brought it, along with a bag of chips and an apple, out to the porch, setting them on the scarred round table positioned between two ancient Adirondack chairs.
“Your lunch is out on the porch,” she told him when she found him at the side of the house, working on a pipe.
“I told you not to bother,” he muttered.
“Well, I did, so be gracious and eat it.”
Without giving him time to reply, she herself headed into the kitchen and had her lunch there, even though she always took her meals on the back porch. She and Fitzgerald had been getting along just fine, she figured, by not being in the same room at one time. Avoidance? Worked for her. She could keep this up for the week or so it took him to finish his chores, and then she wouldn’t have to see him again.
If in the darker recesses of her brain she was aware she was expending entirely too much energy on keeping her distance from the new handyman, that awareness remained subliminal. She’d come up to the mountain to escape stress and to recoup her energies. To rest. But being in Paul Fitzgerald’s presence wasn’t restful in the least.
The early morning air was crisp and clean. A slight chill forecast the coming winter. The perfect beginning to the day, just the way Kayla liked it.
She sipped her coffee, then expelled a huge, grateful sigh. Would she ever stop being appreciative, she wondered, of her luck, of the chance to be away from the relentless noise and chaos of city life in Albany? Up here there was only quiet. Peace. Solitude.
She’d actually slept well the night before. If there was a bear around, she’d told herself before turning in, then it would just have to share the mountain with her. As for the mysterious chicken bones, someone—a hiker, some kids—must have thrown them in the compost heap because they were too lazy to find a trash bin. Whatever. Here she was, the start of a new day, and she was beginning to get a sense of who she was, a sense of…
“Beware the bones of the dead.”
Kayla literally jumped up off her chair, one hand to her thudding heart, the other making sure the coffee mug was firmly on the table.
At the far end of the porch stood an old, slightly bent woman with long, straggly white hair, a once-beautiful face, and a look of manic intensity in her eyes. Like something out of a fairy tale, Kayla thought wildly. Not Disney, but Grimm.
Bailey, who had been sleeping at Kayla’s feet, rose, took in the newcomer and began to bark.
“Bodies and bones. They will rise and destroy everything,” the woman said, her voice amazingly resonant, her dark eyes boring into Kayla’s with mad fervor.
Even as the words sent a chill down her spine, Kayla couldn’t help making an absurd association: Was the woman talking about the chicken bones? The ones from yesterday? Were chicken bones going to rise up and give birth to—what? Baby chicken bones?
She stifled a nervous giggle, then ordered her one-eyed Yorkie, “Bailey, be quiet.” As usual, he continued barking until she picked him up, at which time his barking became a combination growl and whine.
Swallowing her fear and trying to keep her tone conversational, Kayla took a few tentative steps toward her visitor. The way the old woman’s spine was curved, she suffered either from scoliosis or advanced arthritis. “You must be Melinda.”
The so-called “wicked witch of the mountaintop,” a local character who lived in a shack deep in the woods, half crazed, it was said, but harmless. Walter had told Kayla about her, but in the previous visits she’d made up here with him, she’d never met the woman. At the moment, the word harmless wouldn’t have been Kayla’s first choice.
At the mention of her name, Melinda ceased talking and just stared at her, that same wildness in her eyes not diminished by her silence. Then she shifted her gaze to the dog. “Hush, now,” she ordered, and like that, Bailey did, whimpering for a brief moment, then burying his nose in Kayla’s neck.
Maybe she really was a witch, Kayla thought, thoroughly spooked. Still, she took another hesitant step toward her visitor. “Um, may I offer you something to drink, Melinda? Some water?”
As Kayla moved closer, the old woman’s eyes widened and she backed up until she was at the edge of the long porch. There were three steep steps from there to the ground, and sensing her visitor’s panic, Kayla became concerned that she might fall.
“I won’t hurt you,” she assured her, reaching a hand toward Melinda but remaining where she was. “Tell