Dead Silence (Stillwater Trilogy #1)(33)
Author: Brenda Novak

He checked the grandfather clock out in the entry hall. It was probably just as well that he couldn’t call her, he decided.

Retrieving the Bible, he hid it in his sock drawer until he could decide what to do with it. Suddenly he was more interested in what had gone on in the months leading up to the reverend’s disappearance than he was in the actual night.

Because he suspected that what had happened then would explain all the rest.

When Grace returned home, she found a note shoved into the doorjamb.

Immediately apprehensive, she turned to study the bushes, the road behind her, the deep shadows by the garage and the far end of the porch, wondering if whoever had left it was still around. After everything that had occurred, she was expecting a fast reprisal. The past couple of hours felt very much like being tied to a railroad track and hearing a train whistle in the distance. The crossing barrier was lowering; the lights were flashing. She knew a locomotive was moving down the track. She just didn’t know when it was going to hit her.

But no one seemed to be lurking near the house.

Taking the folded note with her, she went inside, locked the door and sat in the dark living room, listening to the clock tick. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know who the note was from, let alone read what was written inside. But ignoring the crossing guard and the flashing lights wouldn’t stop that locomotive….

Resigned, she crossed the room to turn on the light and slowly unfolded the paper.

Where are you, pretty lady? I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot the other night. I’m not a bad guy—definitely willing to forgive and forget, if you are. High school was then, this is now. Give me a call.

Joe had signed his name—and jotted down his number.

With a grimace, she stared at his bold yet sloppy writing. He didn’t get it. He thought it might take a little more effort than it used to, but he could still have her if he wanted.

Shaking her head, she walked around the room, lighting all the candles. Then she used one narrow taper to burn his note in the sink.

So much for Joe. He’d never hear from her.

After rinsing the ashes away, she called George. She needed to remind herself that she had another life besides the one she was living right now in Stillwater, that she had the hope of something better—a husband, a family.

But George didn’t answer.

She looked at her watch. It was almost five in the morning. Which meant he was probably sleeping. She’d expected that. But she craved the sound of his voice. And he’d always picked up when she needed him at odd hours.

She tried again. “Hello, this is George E. Dunagan. I’m unable to come to the phone right now—”

Hanging up, she stood at the doors that opened onto the back porch, watching the trees sway in the wind and feeling very much alone in the creaky old house. George was probably sleeping more deeply than usual, she decided. He hadn’t called her the past couple of days because he’d been busy. It was probably that intruder rape case he was working on, the one he’d said was going sideways when he’d brought her furniture over a week ago. She knew how crazy a defense attorney’s job could be. All that shifting and slanting and hiding of the truth took considerable effort.

Chastising herself for being sardonic—including him with so many of the defense attorneys she knew—she promised herself she’d call him in a few hours, when he reached his office. Then she went upstairs.

The rain had stopped. She was glad of the storm; it would lower the temperature and the humidity for a day or two. But she didn’t like the low, keening whistle of the wind. The sound brought back those years when she’d huddled, frightened, beneath her blankets. Too afraid to move. Trying not to breathe. It had been a blustery night just like this one when she’d first heard that ominous creak in the hall and seen the looming shadow of her stepfather in her bedroom doorway….

“He’s dead. Dead and gone,” she whispered. She’d helped bury him. They’d all helped. But, sure enough, when she closed her eyes, he had his nose pressed to the glass of her living room window.

He was back. And he was trying to get inside the house.

8

The next morning, Kennedy sat at the kitchen table and watched his youngest son dig in to a bowl of Honeycomb cereal. He’d wanted to talk to Teddy about Grace before the incident at the pool hall. But it’d seemed a little hypocritical to tell his son he had to spend less time with the woman whose cookies they were all so greedily devouring. She’d also sent home a pan of lasagna and some garlic bread, which his mother had grudgingly passed along. They’d eaten it for dinner. He had to admit it’d felt good to have a homemade meal with his boys that he hadn’t cooked, one without his mother’s presence and the constant worry that gnawed at him every time he looked at his father.

“You’re downing that cereal pretty fast,” he said, folding the newspaper he’d been reading and putting it next to his coffee cup. “Where’s the fire?”

“What fire?” Teddy asked, his mouth full.

“It’s a figure of speech. I’m asking why you’re in such a hurry.”

His youngest son paused briefly to glance up at him. “We need to go, don’t we? You have lots to do.”

“Somehow that’s never motivated you to get ready so fast before.”

Teddy kept his eyes on his food and continued to shovel cereal into his mouth.

“Last week you hated going to Grandma’s. Suddenly I get no complaints,” Kennedy went on.

Teddy’s spoon hovered a few inches from his mouth. “It’s not so bad anymore.”

“The question is why.”

No answer.

“You like Grace’s cookies that much?”

“I like Grace,” Teddy said. “It’s fun at her place.”

Heath finished drinking the milk left over from his cereal and banged his bowl onto the table. “He was gone all day yesterday,” he volunteered. “Grandma was so mad she said she was going to box his ears.”

“Tattletale!” Teddy cried.

“Whoa.” Kennedy reached across the table and squeezed Teddy’s arm, because he was the easiest one to reach, before the brief exchange could erupt into a full-blown argument. “Settle down. Grandma already asked me to talk to you about the amount of time you’re spending over there.”

“Grandma doesn’t like Grace just because she’s voting for Vicki Nibley,” Teddy complained.