Page 72 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
She stared at him.
“I’m sorry. I won’t say anything else. But come over. You need to practice.”
She nodded and hung up. She changed into dark clothes, pulled on a black hoodie and slid out into the entry. She debated; the front door would take her past the sitting room, where guests still sipped wine and chatted. The back door would take her past Benedict’s cottage.
She took a chance with the front door. She pulled her hood up over her head, slipped past and hoped no one saw her, or at least no one identified her. The door was a challenge. It creaked. But she got onto the porch without being hailed and after that, it was easy to slip through the hedge and into the yard next door.
If the bed-and-breakfast looked as if the Addams family inhabited it, this place looked like Hill House: haunted, abandoned, ill-treated.
But she came here anyway.
Because he’d told her to. And about this, at least, he was right.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The coach house at the Good Knight Manor Bed and Breakfast suffocated Benedict with its bric-a-brac and ruffles, china cups and flowered wallpaper. Yet tonight, Benedict felt at home. The evening had gone well. Very well. Better than he could have imagined. Sure, he knew that Merida was up to something, using him for some reason. Yet the wine had been excellent, the conversation scintillating.
He removed his jacket, his tie, his shoes.
And if that kiss was anything to go by, he’d be glad to let Merida use him any way she wanted, all night long.
His phone rang. For one brief, forgetful moment, he thought it was Merida. Then he checked the number.
His aunt. Last he’d heard, Rose and Albert were on a leisurely cruise across the North Atlantic to view the glaciers and fjords. Even if they were in a port, it was very late there and unless there was an emergency, those two believed in early to bed. He picked up. “Rose, what’s wrong?”
His aunt’s voice held that slight old age tremor she had developed. “Dear boy, it’s good to hear your voice after so long!”
Right away, his suspicions were aroused. “It’s only been a week since we spoke.”
“I know, but I recall the days when you lived with us and I saw you every day. I do miss that!”
“Hmm.” When his parents were killed, Rose and Albert took him in without a single sign of distress and raised him as their own, but Aunt Rose was not one to show affection. “Is Albert okay?”
“We’re both fine. We’re at sea steaming our way toward the Isle of Man. We may be in our seventies and leaving the corporations to you, but we like to keep our fingers on the pulse!”
Of course. The business. “What’s wrong with the corporations?”
“Where are you, dear?”
“In Virtue Falls, Washington.”
“What’s there?”
“Vacation.”
“I suppose if we are enjoying ourselves more than we should, you can, too.” The old age tremor grew more pronounced.
Sometimes it was hard for Benedict to believe that he was related to these people, that Benedict’s father, Troy, and Albert had been brothers, and that Rose and his mother, Carla, had been sisters-in-law. Troy had been the younger son, irresponsible, traveling the world, making friends everywhere, handing out the family fortune to anyone who told him a sob story. His mother had been the practical one, insisting they live where Benedict could attend school, making sure they had shelter over their heads and regular meals. Yet Carla had adored Troy and whenever she woke Benedict in the early morning hours and handed him his backpack, he knew he was in for some form of delightful madness. Good times. Even today he missed his parents, the love, the laughter, the spontaneous travels.
With Albert and Rose, it was all money, greed, profit and an almost psychotic disregard for the world, its people and its future. “What’s wrong with the corporations?”
“Dear, I was checking the records for the next board meeting…”
What her on-board Wi-Fi charges must be!
“—and something caught my eye. Just the tiniest niggle.”
“What kind of niggle?”
