The Family Tree: a psychological thriller by S.K. Grice

Author:S.K. Grice [Grice, S.K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SLG Publications
Published: 2021-09-30T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

It took two hours to gather my resolve after the detectives left. I locked the front door and made my way toward the Nichols’ house about a quarter of a mile up the road, toward the pine reserve. The late afternoon sun was low on the western horizon, a golden glow on the clear blue sky.

Looking back at what happened to Mike was scary, but I’d never get answers until I faced my demons—the random thoughts about that night, the guilt, remorse, the dark figure on the lawn. What other details were missing?

The ominous figure was my sharpest memory. Now, it was a vision which refused to die. The colorful tail lights of the Nichols’ car, though—that was no vision. I’d never given the odd old couple much thought. Annette and I had been certain they’d seen nothing, because if they had, they would’ve immediately reported it to the police. No, the Nichols didn’t know what we’d done, but Mrs. Nichols had made it her business to know other people’s business, which made her a good place to start. Patsy had found her snoopiness annoying, but the woman was as loyal as an old dog when it came to being a friend and neighbor, and Patsy had valued that.

Within minutes of heading out, I arrived at the red brick ranch home—plain and traditional with no pretense, just like the owners. The place looked the same now as it had when Annette and I had been children feeding apples to their Palomino horses.

“Jolene? Is that you?” Mrs. Nichols stood behind a hedge, a floppy straw hat on her head and a rake in her hand.

I waved. “Sorry for just dropping by unannounced—”

“My goodness, no. It’s been so long since we’ve seen you.” She dropped the rake, took off her gardening gloves, and walked toward me with open arms.

We hugged, and then I pulled back. “I never got a chance to thank you and Mr. Nichols for arranging the gathering at Patsy’s house after the funeral.” My hand went to my throat as if that could stop my voice from cracking. “It’s hard to believe three months have passed since Patsy died. The shock still feels new.”

“I miss her, too.” Mrs. Nichols took my hand and squeezed. “Come on, dear. Let’s go inside.”

The austere décor of her pristine house was early colonial American. Seventeenth-century early with no soft seating. Nothing about the cold, hard furniture welcomed me to stay.

Mrs. Nichols hung her hat on a hook at the doorway and smoothed stray hairs from her low bun. “We loved Patsy. Poor dear. Her last months were full of heartache.” Her lined jowls lifted into a smile. “Please come sit. We rarely get company these days.” She gestured to a bare wooden bench which was meant to be the sofa.

Cough. Cough. Aggggkkk.

I turned toward the sound. Someone in the back of the house was having a coughing fit.

“Dear Mr. Nichols has been sick and in bed for the past two weeks. The doctor said it would be a slow recovery, but I just hope he’s better before Winter hits.

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