Her Final Wish (Darcy Hunt FBI Mystery Suspense Thriller Book 2) by Eva Sparks

Author:Eva Sparks [Sparks, Eva]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-02-25T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Arbor Hills Neighborhood

Albany, NY

The palms of my hands are clammy as I walk up the steps of the old brownstone and linger on the welcome mat. A chilly breeze cuts down the street, tousling my hair and stirring the leaves on the sidewalk below me. I tuck a rogue lock of hair behind my ear and, taking a slow, deep breath, knock on the door. My heart is thumping in my ears so loudly I can hardly hear my own thoughts. A voice somewhere in the back of my mind orders me to retreat down the steps and not come back. Another voice tells me that this is something I have to do, and that everything will be all right.

There really is nothing to fear. I know that. But the reptilian part of my brain that is concerned with protecting me is currently winning over the logical part. It’s as if it believes that I’m about to jump off a cliff and is doing everything it can to save me. And the more that I stand here thinking about it, maybe I am about to jump off a cliff. But this is something that I have to do, even if it means introducing more pain and unanswered questions into my life.

My stomach tightens into a painful knot as the deadbolt is thrown back and the handle turns. A lithe lady with wispy silver hair steps into view. She’s dressed in white slacks and a white polyester blouse with blue flowers patterned across it.

“Mrs. Stevens?”

“Yes. Agent Hunt?” Her eyes are denim blue, bright and shiny beneath penciled eyebrows.

“Yes, ma’am. And please, call me Darcy.”

Even though I’ve spent nearly all my life in the state of New York, I still have a hard time doing away with the formality of a “ma’am” or “sir” when I’m speaking with someone a good bit older than myself. My mother was born and raised in Alabama, where you drink sweet tea with dinner, shopping carts are called “buggies,” and saying “ma’am” and “sir'' is seen as a gesture of hospitality and respect.

“Please, come in.” I step across the threshold onto polished oak floors the color of honey. The home smells pleasantly of cinnamon and roses. Mrs. Stevens closes the door and leads me into a high-ceiling parlor just off the foyer, where a built-in bookcase on the far wall is modestly furnished. Matching Antionette loveseats sit across a coffee table from each other, their backs trimmed in darkly carved wood. “Can I get you something to drink? I made a pitcher of pink lemonade just a bit ago.”

“That would be fine, thank you.”

“Have a seat anywhere you like. I’ll be right back.”

She proceeds down the hall as I step farther into the parlor. Ornate gold-framed paintings of French cottages line the wall, and I study each one as I progress past them, moving over to the bookshelves and examining the authors: Jane Austen, Raymond Carver, Phillip Roth, dozens of books by Mary Higgins Clark, and a leather-bound, gold-stamped set of Ayn Rand’s novels.

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