Linger 5: The Death of Dreams (A Linger Thriller) by Edward Fallon & Rob Cornell

Author:Edward Fallon & Rob Cornell [Fallon, Edward]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Braun Haus Media, LLC
Published: 2015-06-30T23:00:00+00:00

21

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ONE MINUTE, HE WAS TALKING TO Kate, Christopher at his side.

The next… he was alone.

That fucking LaFontaine. His tricks got more elaborate at every turn. But Weston knew they were exactly that. Tricks. Which meant Kate and Christopher were still with him, whether he could see them or not.

“Kate?” He lurched forward to where she had been standing, expecting to collide with her.

Hoping to.

He stumbled ahead and kept going. Either he had passed through her as if she were a ghost, or she had moved.

He held his arms out and slowly turned like a kid in a pool with his eyes closed playing Marco Polo. He waded through the empty air back toward the island, to where he last saw Christopher. He waved his hands out blindly. His hands passed through the air without touching a thing.

Damn it. How could LaFontaine be doing this?

Did he warp Weston’s vision? Making him think he was heading in one direction while actually moving in another?

“You think too much,” a voice said from the direction of the dining room.

A familiar voice that sent chills rippling down Weston’s spine. He had no doubt who he would see when he looked toward the sound.

Anna sat in one of the chairs at the table, facing Weston. One hand idly brushed the table top back and forth as she smiled.

“You always did overanalyze everything. Sometimes I thought you were better at sawing logs than living life. Like you left your head in that saw mill, except for Sunday mornings at church.”

Weston shook his head. “Anna never thought such things.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Because I know my wife, and—”

“Knew.” Anna stood and came around to lean back against the end of the table. “Past tense, Noah. I’m not alive anymore. You let that monster slaughter me and the girls.”

The breath Weston sucked in was hot and tasted like… like sawdust.

He set his jaw. He wouldn’t let LaFontaine goad him. If the prick wanted to cut him up with a chainsaw, he’d have to do it while Weston looked him in the eye with a cold, dead stare. Not as the simpering wreck LaFontaine thought he could turn Weston into.

“Is there a point to this?”

Anna pushed away from the dining room table and came toward him. Everything about her movement, from the sway of her hips to the soft glide of her gait, matched Anna’s identically. He knew she was a lie. But he couldn’t get his heart to admit it. It was hard to fight the twinge around his eyes urging him to let go and cry. His face muscles ached as he tensed against the urge.

“The point,” Anna said when she reached Weston, “is this.”

She raised a hand and stroked Weston’s cheek.

The feel of her skin against his stubbled face broke something loose inside of him.

Her touch.

He could feel her touch.

It was too much to resist.

He closed in and wrapped his arms around her, pulled her body against his, pressed his face into her hair, smelling that jasmine shampoo she had always used.

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