The House of Secrets. Terry Lynn Thomas
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Turn the Page for an Extract From Terry Lynn Thomas’s Gripping The Silent Woman
The Next Book From Terry Lynn Thomas Is Coming in 2019
I knew loving Zeke could be dangerous …
Within seconds, strong arms reached around me from behind, encircling my waist. I held fast to my hat with one hand and clutched my purse with the other as the man lifted me up and slung me over his shoulder like a sack of sugar. He knocked the hat out of my hand, and I watched, unable to do anything, as it blew away on a gust of the March wind.
The Viking hauled me to the waiting car. He opened the rear passenger door and threw me onto the smooth leather seat with such force that I slid across it and hit the door on the opposite side. The giant stayed outside the car, leaning on the car, trapping me. I sat up and pulled my skirt back down over my legs. My purse had fallen to the floor, its contents scattered everywhere.
‘Collect your things. Be quick about it.’
The fat man who sat across from me expected me to obey. I almost defied him. A quick glance at the Viking, who had pushed away from the car door, changed my mind. With shaking hands, I stuffed my belongings back into my purse. I dropped my lipstick. It slid under the seat.
‘Bit of a klutz.’ The man who sat across from me had jowls like a bulldog and soulless eyes.
‘I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.’
‘No. I know who you are, Miss Bennett. Your boyfriend has something of mine.’
March 1943
The weeping started when the foreman read the ‘not guilty’ verdict.
The sobs played like background music as I sat numb, unable to fathom how my adoptive father, Jack Bennett, had got away with so many crimes. I remained in my seat as the audience in the gallery, the jury, the judge, and, finally, the attorneys filed out of the courtroom, their expressions running the gambit from pity to loathing and all the emotions in between.
The weeping echoed off the oaken walls of the courtroom, a solemn reminder of all that I had lost. Zeke. He crept into my mind. I didn’t have the strength to push him away. I had experienced my share of auditory hallucinations since falling from the second-storey landing at Bennett House last October. The fall had killed my stepmother. By some fortuitous stroke of luck, I had survived. Dr Upton, my psychiatrist, blamed the stressful situation for my current state of mind. I didn’t tell him everything that I had seen and heard since the fall. Dr Upton had been so kind to me during the trial, I didn’t have the heart to burden him with the truth.
In the days following the trial, I took the morphine drops that he prescribed for me, but they did little to quell the baleful tears. I tried to ignore the weeping and function as though nothing were wrong. I needed a job. I needed a place to stay. No small feat in San Francisco. Thousands of enlisted men flooded the city each day. The housing shortage had become so severe, many of these young men were forced to sleep in the lobbies of the over-booked hotels and in the seats of the theatres.
When Miss Macky, the proprietress of the school where I studied typewriting, referred me to the Geisler Institute for a secretarial position – good pay, room and board – I jumped at the opportunity without a second thought. I knew that my presence at the school distracted the other girls, and that Miss Macky wanted to get rid of me. This job would provide me an income and a chance to remove myself from the public eye.
As the taxi pulled up to the big house on the corner of Jackson and Laguna, I wondered what I had got myself into. We coasted to a stop just as the first rays of sun sliced through the morning fog. My driver, an old man with gaps in his smile where teeth should have been and a wad of chewing tobacco jammed behind his bottom lip, spat into a chipped coffee mug that rested on the dashboard. I got out of the cab, pulling my coat tight against the gust of wind that whipped around my ankles, while the driver retrieved my carryall – a scuffed Hermès leather case that had belonged to my adoptive mother – and hoisted it onto his hip with ease. I followed him as he limped up the walkway.
Halfway towards the house I stopped and tipped my head back, taking in the well-maintained exterior, the curved corner windows, and a front door so large it could have graced a castle.
The driver stopped by the front door. With a quick glance, he observed my unpolished shoes, shabby coat, and misshapen hat. ‘You staying here?’
‘Working here.’
‘Excuse me, Miss High and Mighty.’ He spat his tobacco on the sidewalk. ‘Ain’t this a nut house?’ He squinted at the tasteful brass placard attached to the door at eye level. The Geisler Institute, Dr Matthew Geisler, Ph.D., M.D. The driver narrowed his beady eyes into slits and stared at me. ‘I know you. You’re the girl what accused her father of murder. Jack Bennett. You his daughter, Sarah?’
‘I didn’t accuse him of anything—’
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, testifying against your own flesh and blood. You’ve ruined that man’s life. A daughter ain’t supposed to do that.’
What about my life? I wanted to shout at him, never mind that Jack Bennett was not my actual flesh and blood.
He dropped my suitcase. When it hit the ground, the lid popped open and everything I owned, including my undergarments, spilled out onto the wet walkway. He looked at my clothes – my linen underwear, my garter belts, and my last precious pair of silk stockings – as they lay scattered about then turned on his heel and walked away.
‘Wait a minute,’ I shouted. ‘You get back here—’
I stopped myself. I didn’t want him to come back and help me. I didn’t want him to touch my things.
‘Buzz off, lady. If I had known who you were, I wouldn’t have let you in my cab.’
‘I hope you don’t think I’m going to pay.’
‘I’d starve in the streets before I’d take money from the likes of you.’
He took one final glance at the house, spat again, jumped in his taxi, and screeched off.
I bent down and started stuffing my clothes back into my suitcase, casting a glance at the big windows on the front of the house, praying that no one watched me. The cold concrete hurt my knees. As I stood up, the snag that started at my kneecap crept up my thigh. Another stocking ruined. Soon I would be forced to forego stockings altogether and use pancake make-up on my legs. I could always switch to trousers, but I hadn’t any