Mrs. Rochester's Ghost: A Thriller by Lindsay Marcott

Author:Lindsay Marcott [Marcott, Lindsay]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2021-07-31T23:00:00+00:00

EIGHTEEN

The landline shrilled me out of sleep. That old desk phone that sometimes worked and was sometimes dead. It was later that night, almost one a.m. With a flash of alarm, I picked up. “Otis?”

“It’s me.” Evan’s voice low, urgent. “Are you dressed?”

I felt a moment’s confusion. “No. I was sleeping. Why are you calling on this phone?”

“You’ve got no cell connection. I need you to come to my office.”

“Now? Why?”

“Please, Jane. I need you. You’ll know when you get here.”

The urgency in his voice heightened my alarm. “Okay, I’ll get dressed.”

I glanced at my cell. It flickered on one bar, getting no help from the too-cheap booster. I pulled on jeans, a thick sweater. Quickly combed my bedhead hair, then went out, taking care to lock the door securely behind me.

The fog had completely dissipated. The moon was now just a thin sliver of gold very high in the dark sky. The wind rushing through the tall pines sounded like traffic on an expressway. I made my way by the dim ground lights to the motor court. A vehicle was parked there. Malik Anderson still here?

But it was an SUV, not Malik’s Porsche. A Range Rover. Black or maybe blue.

A feeling of trepidation crept over me.

I continued down the dark path to the office. The door was partially open. A dim and flickering light inside. Minnie and Mickey were crouched in front of the door, fixated on the interior, growling low in their throats. Their attention didn’t waver as I walked past them. I stepped inside.

“Jane.” Evan emerged from the shadowed far end of the room.

I gasped. His white shirt was covered with blood. “You’re hurt!”

A thin voice spoke behind me. “No, he’s not.”

I swung my head.

At the opposite end of the room, three flat-screen monitors were mounted on the wall, tuned to financial programs—talking heads muttering low, stock quotes streaming—and below the streaming quotes, Rick McAdams lay sprawled on a couch.

I gasped again.

His face was a gory mess. Blood soaked his jacket, spattered his pants and shoes. He clutched a towel sopping with blood to his head.

I started toward him. Evan seized my arm. “He says he knows you. Is that true?”

I looked wildly at Evan. “I met him once. What’s happened to him?”

“When did you meet him?”

“Last month. He recognized the Audi and followed me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would I?” I glanced back at Rick. “He needs help.”

“Hurts. I’m really fucked up,” Rick said. “I told him to call you. You’re a witness.”

“She should be a witness.” To me, Evan said, “He was trespassing on the grounds in violation of a restraining order. The dogs went after him. He tripped and fell and cracked his head.”

“Not true,” Rick muttered.

“When I found him, he was out cold. I got him into his car and brought him here. He didn’t want EMS.”

“He looks seriously hurt.” I broke from Evan and went over to Rick. His glamorous blond hair was encrusted with blood—black at the ends where it had dried, dark blue near his scalp where the wounds were still oozing.

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