See Also Deception Read Online Free
Author: Larry D. Sweazy
still walked with a slight limp.
âWhatâs going on there, Guy? Can I speak to Calla, please?â
More silence. I could hear Guy breathing, so he didnât have his hand cupped over the receiver like he was trying to hide something. Instead, it was like he was trying to decide what to say without telling me what was going on or lying to me.
I tapped the pen on the wall again. If I kept it up thereâd be another mar to note my presence in the house. This old house was nicked and battered by the weather outside and my fingers on the inside. It was a wonder that it hadnât collapsed from such abuse.
âLibraryâs closed, Marjorie,â Guy said.
âI need to speak to Calla.â
âThatâs not possible. Not possible at all.â
I lowered my voice. âYou tell me whatâs going on right now, Guy Reinhardt. You hear me. You tell me that Calla Eltmore is all right, that thereâs nothing the matter with her.â The words jumped out of my mouth unfettered. I knew I was speaking with an officer of the law, but I couldnât help myself. That happened sometimes, a product of my bloodline and spending inordinate amounts of time alone. I had few filters to consider, especially when I was nervous.
âI canât tell you that, Marjorie. I canât tell you anything. Iâm sorry, I really have to go. Goodbye, Marjorie.â Then the phone clicked harshly in my ear and the line went dead.
I was stunned by Guyâs action. He couldâve told me what was going on. It wasnât like I was Burlene Standish, apt to blab whatever he told me around half of Dickinson. I really needed to know that Calla was all right, but my gut feeling told me that wasnât the case. Something was wrong . Horribly wrong. I just didnât want to imagine what that something was.
For the second time in a day, I stood rigid, unbelieving, staring at the phone. I wanted to scream, Tell me whatâs going on! But I knew it wouldnât do me any good. Screams never changed anything.
I hung up the receiver, turned around, and slid down the wall on my back; gravity was stronger than my will. I suddenly found myself face-to-face with Shep, who, out of concern and brazen compassion, leaned in and licked off a nervous tear that had started to trail down my cheek.
Night fell and darkness wrapped itself around the house like it had a right to, even though I wished it wouldnât, covering everything in a thick blanket of petulant silence. The wind, almost ever-present in October, had whimpered away at last light and had not been heard from since. Such a thing could be disquieting and deeply unsettling. Sanity in the middle of nowhere had always been fragile, but it had felt even more so of late.
The world kept on changing, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The days were growing shorter, and the time to prepare for the coming winter was long past the critical point. I barely had enough wood stacked outside to feed our two Franklin stoves through December. The reliable January deep-freeze was not something I was prepared for in any way.
Earlier in the day, Iâd been tempted to grab up my purse, rush out the door, jump in the truck, and speed into town as quickly as I could after speaking with Guy, but I didnât have the freedom to come and go like I once did. I couldnât just leave Hank to himself. Not anymore. I was just as trapped by his condition as he was. There were times when that fact was beyond frustrating, but it just was what it was: Our lot to carry.
In the past, I could have called Lida Knudsen to come and sit with Hank while I tended to my town chores, but she was dead and buried, a fact that I still found to be unbelievable, especially in the moments when I needed her the most. All Iâd had to do in the past was call, and sheâd have been at my door in the blink of an eye, eager to help out. But with Lida and her husband gone, there was
âWhatâs going on there, Guy? Can I speak to Calla, please?â
More silence. I could hear Guy breathing, so he didnât have his hand cupped over the receiver like he was trying to hide something. Instead, it was like he was trying to decide what to say without telling me what was going on or lying to me.
I tapped the pen on the wall again. If I kept it up thereâd be another mar to note my presence in the house. This old house was nicked and battered by the weather outside and my fingers on the inside. It was a wonder that it hadnât collapsed from such abuse.
âLibraryâs closed, Marjorie,â Guy said.
âI need to speak to Calla.â
âThatâs not possible. Not possible at all.â
I lowered my voice. âYou tell me whatâs going on right now, Guy Reinhardt. You hear me. You tell me that Calla Eltmore is all right, that thereâs nothing the matter with her.â The words jumped out of my mouth unfettered. I knew I was speaking with an officer of the law, but I couldnât help myself. That happened sometimes, a product of my bloodline and spending inordinate amounts of time alone. I had few filters to consider, especially when I was nervous.
âI canât tell you that, Marjorie. I canât tell you anything. Iâm sorry, I really have to go. Goodbye, Marjorie.â Then the phone clicked harshly in my ear and the line went dead.
I was stunned by Guyâs action. He couldâve told me what was going on. It wasnât like I was Burlene Standish, apt to blab whatever he told me around half of Dickinson. I really needed to know that Calla was all right, but my gut feeling told me that wasnât the case. Something was wrong . Horribly wrong. I just didnât want to imagine what that something was.
For the second time in a day, I stood rigid, unbelieving, staring at the phone. I wanted to scream, Tell me whatâs going on! But I knew it wouldnât do me any good. Screams never changed anything.
I hung up the receiver, turned around, and slid down the wall on my back; gravity was stronger than my will. I suddenly found myself face-to-face with Shep, who, out of concern and brazen compassion, leaned in and licked off a nervous tear that had started to trail down my cheek.
Night fell and darkness wrapped itself around the house like it had a right to, even though I wished it wouldnât, covering everything in a thick blanket of petulant silence. The wind, almost ever-present in October, had whimpered away at last light and had not been heard from since. Such a thing could be disquieting and deeply unsettling. Sanity in the middle of nowhere had always been fragile, but it had felt even more so of late.
The world kept on changing, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The days were growing shorter, and the time to prepare for the coming winter was long past the critical point. I barely had enough wood stacked outside to feed our two Franklin stoves through December. The reliable January deep-freeze was not something I was prepared for in any way.
Earlier in the day, Iâd been tempted to grab up my purse, rush out the door, jump in the truck, and speed into town as quickly as I could after speaking with Guy, but I didnât have the freedom to come and go like I once did. I couldnât just leave Hank to himself. Not anymore. I was just as trapped by his condition as he was. There were times when that fact was beyond frustrating, but it just was what it was: Our lot to carry.
In the past, I could have called Lida Knudsen to come and sit with Hank while I tended to my town chores, but she was dead and buried, a fact that I still found to be unbelievable, especially in the moments when I needed her the most. All Iâd had to do in the past was call, and sheâd have been at my door in the blink of an eye, eager to help out. But with Lida and her husband gone, there was
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