Chasing Amanda Read Online Free Page B

She perspired under the weight of her thick coat. Taking one last look around, she removed a key from around her neck and unlocked the thick chain that held the wooden doors closed.
    Cold damp air brushed Pastor Lett’s face as she pulled the doors open. The musty smell hung in the air as she walked down the narrow, stone stairway and into the pitch black cellar. She ignited a lighter, pleased to see that nothing was out of place. The dirt walls of the small chamber sent another rush of culpability through her body. Lord, please forgive me , she prayed.
    A claustrophobic pressure engulfed her as she became accustomed to the darkness and silence. She lugged the cheap metal shelving unit from the far end of the chamber into the center of the room, the old tin cans and few tools that were spread on the shelves knocked and clanked against the cold metal. She slid the marred plywood away from the dirt wall and moved it to the side, leaning it against the shelving unit. Sweating despite the cool air and feeling every day as old as her fifty-seven years, Pastor Lett worried about the day that the plywood would become too heavy for her to move alone.
    Her body sagged as she tucked her head to her chest and moved slowly through the hand-dug hole and into the next chamber, where she could stand her full height of five feet nine inches.
    Small battery-powered lights sat on an abused end table. An unlit candle lay tilted on the floor. Tucked into a nook in the dirt wall was a mattress, a cream comforter thrown haphazardly off the edge. An old, stained sofa sat an angle, inches out from the wall. The chamber was silent—too silent. Pastor Lett’s heart pounded against her ribs. She stared at the black hole behind the sofa, calling out in a sweet voice, “Honey, you in here?”
    Worry grew in her heart as she moved through the empty chambers, then retraced her steps back to the main chamber. She replaced the plywood and shelves, roughly arranging the tins and tools, her face tight with frustration. She left the cellar, locking the heavy chain securely in place.
    Pastor Lett paced the back yard, worrying. She looked up as a shadow moved past the window of one of the upstairs bedrooms. Mumbling under her breath, she fumbled with the keys, unlocking the thick wooden door that led from the back porch into the butlers’ pantry. I’ve got you.
     
     
    “Ow, shit!” Molly grimaced at the pain in her palm as she lifted the spaghetti pot from the hot burner.
    “Baby, let me get that,” Cole said as he walked into the kitchen and saw his wife struggling. “What happened to your hand?”
    Molly backed onto a white kitchen chair and laid her arm across her thigh. “Did you lose your pager today?” she asked, annoyed. “I tried to page you all afternoon.”
    “No. It was crazy, seeing patients, doing procedures. I must have forgotten to put it back on.” He set the pan back on the stove and knelt in front of Molly. “I’m sorry, baby. What happened?” He kissed her bandaged palm, “Let me see that hand.” He unwrapped the bandage. “Where are the pups?”
    Molly had almost forgotten about their dogs’ earlier escape. She shrugged, “They jumped the fence again. I’ll get them later.” She sat back in her chair, exasperated, and looked down at the crown of his beautiful dark hair, her frustration beginning to subside. “I had a terrible day,” she sighed, “well, not terrible, but scary and confusing to say the least! Did you see the paper? The story about the little girl who’s missing?”
    Cole quickly glanced up at her, “No time this morning. I was running late, remember?” He fiddled with her bandage, his face grew concerned, “What did you say about a girl?”
    Molly told Cole about Tracey’s disappearance. “I met her parents today and helped with the search. That’s how I cut my palm.”
    “Yeah, your palm,” he said with a sigh, as he inspected her hand. “You could use a stitch or two.”
    Molly snatched