Page 58 of The Girl from Widow Hills
I wondered if this was what had sent Elyse on the road so quickly. The police lingering around my house? Seeing Detective Rigby in the hospital?
Sean Coleman’s death had nothing to do with her, but she’d spooked when she saw the detective at the hospital after she showed up in the middle of the night; she’d seemed uncomfortable with the police activity outside my house, watching out my window.
And then she’d gotten into a fight with Bennett.
Even now I didn’t want to believe it, didn’t want to see the worst in people. Especially someone I’d really cared for. But people were like that—often you only got to see the shell. The surface calm. The charm.
Even the manager at the bar had hinted at it—that she’d hung around a lot. Maybe he was referring to things I wasn’t aware of, a crowd of people other than my own. Maybe that was what she and Trevor had been discussing and why he’d been so cagey on the phone.
She’d been skimming from our inventory. Possibly to use or possibly to sell.
And now she was gone. Not returning to a safer haven. But off to the next place, no forwarding address, no notice, no goodbye. Like she could feel the net closing in on her and had to escape it first. How many of us were outrunning something?
I stared at my computer screen, unsure what to do next. Protocol said I should report this to Bennett, but it could wait. There was no urgency any longer. And I still felt some allegiance to her. I didn’t want to be so wrong about people—again.
I looked to the empty couch and debated checking out, attempting a nap. It was lunchtime, but without Bennett or Elyse, I didn’t want to brave the whispers in the cafeteria. I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, settling on something close to meditation instead.
A few moments later, there was a shuffling of fabric from out in the hall. I opened my eyes, thought I saw a shadow under the door. I stared at it, wondering if it was someone pausing in the hall, checking their phone, when the doorknob began to faintly turn. It barely made a sound, and I held my breath, watching it move.
My heartbeat grew louder, and I looked for a way out: the windows behind me that I could crank open, but I was three floors up, over the parking lot; the phone on my desk, though I didn’t know whom to call.
I pretended to make a call, hand on the receiver, just in case. “Hello, this is Olivia Meyer,” I said loudly. The door handle dropped. The shadow left.
I waited, listening, before leaving the phone and walking around my desk. I opened my office door, peered down the hall. Expecting maybe someone lingering, waiting to talk to me. But it was empty from the stairwell entrance on the left to the locked double doors on the right. Whoever had been out there was gone.
My ringing office phone drew me back inside.
“This is Olivia,” I answered, heart still racing.
“Olivia, it’s Dr. Cal. Can you please swing by my office this evening before you head out?”
I was caught off guard, wondering why he was calling, whether I’d gotten my schedule wrong. “Oh, um, I didn’t think we had an appointment this soon . . .” I pulled up my calendar, didn’t see anything in there.
“It’s important. A few items we need to discuss. Some paperwork I forgot to take care of. So. Five-thirty?”
“Sure,” I said.
This time I locked my office door behind me on the way out.
RETURN TO SENDER
No Forwarding Address
POSTMARKED: LEXINGTON, KY
MAY 21, 2011
How much did they give you for that new brick house, for that white picket fence, for that nice black car? What’s the going rate for that fake life you’re living?
How much do you owe the people who made this life for you?
How much do you have left?
I know the answer to that one. More than you deserve.
If you’re not careful, you’ll get what you really deserve.
