Page 32 of Eldritch

“Hey there,” Sybil said, but she stopped when she caught her friend’s expression. Letisha looked worn out. Used up. Dark circles under her eyes. Worry hit Sybil. “Fibro still bothering you?”

Letisha stretched her arms above her head and leaned back a little. She groaned. Sybil had seen her friend do this stretch many times over the years.

“Yep.” Letisha lowered her arms and looked at the huge smart watch on her wrist. “I’ve been cleaning the office, and it’s kicking my ass. You wouldn’t think it would, but...” She waved one hand in dismissal. “It doesn’t matter. It hasn’t been this bad in a long time. But it will calm down soon.”

Sybil winced in sympathy. “And you don’t have the prescription stuff anymore?”

Letisha’s eyes turned cool. Almost mad. “I told you I ran out.”

Sybil’s ego stung a little, but her anger threatened to reach the same height. She put up one hand. “Whoa. No need to be mad. I just forgot.”

“Sorry.” Letisha sighed. “I slept like shit last night, so that’s part of the problem.”

“Because the fibro hurt that much?”

Letisha walked toward one couch at the far south end of the Great Hall, and Sybil followed her.

Letisha sank down on the couch. “Not really. I had weird dreams. Kept me awake most of the night.”

Sybil sat on the couch facing the massive fireplace. “Why don’t you take a load off and try to catch up on sleep? Relax.”

“I’ll do that and call my doc in Denver and see if I can get meds in Estes Park. Look, I’m sorry,” Letisha said. “I don’t know what started this fibro crap.”

“Doesn’t matter. Shit happens, right?”

Letisha smiled. “No. I mean, I’m sorry that I’ve been a little on edge lately.”

“No problem. It’ll work out.” Sybil put on her best face, the one that she used for calming people when they came unglued about something, or maybe needed soothing. Anything to make sure they didn’t dislike her.

Pathetic. Simply pathetic, Sybil.

Mrs. Recrimination echoed in her head, the voice tinged with her mother’s voice.

Here we go again. You can’t stop being triggered by shit.

“I’ll take a nap,” Letisha said, her expression lifting back to her usual can-do, enthusiastic tone. “I’ll set my alarm for thirty minutes, then I’ll be back down here working.”

“I’ll check on Maria and Pauline.”

“Sounds good.”

Letisha left the Great Hall and took the stairs, and Sybil watched from her position on the couch. Letisha walked like a much older woman when fibromyalgia attacked.

Sybil lingered on the couch, trying to gather her thoughts. She still had a job to do. She didn’t have the luxury of wondering too much about a strange man with a mustache lingering around the outside of this home. Nor did she have the time to wonder about muddy footprints no one could explain. Her mind ran in circles. She’d forgotten to show Doug the photographs of the muddy footprints, but she’d sent those photos to Clarice.

She halted. It didn’t matter. Clarice, as the client, was the one to satisfy. Not Doug.

She closed her eyes and sighed. This lasted only a moment before she stood and turned to her right.

The mustache man from the late nineteenth century stood outside one window facing west onto the terrace. She froze for a moment. Unsure. So the man hadn’t left the area. He faced away from her, looking westward to the tree line. She skirted past the piano and impulsively reached for the door handle. She unlocked it and pulled. It resisted.

“Damn it.”

She looked up.

No one. The guy was gone.

She pulled on the door, and it opened this time. She rushed out onto the terrace. Sybil looked in every direction and didn’t see anyone. She ran down the path that circled the mansion. As she slowed to a trot, she continued scanning the area and looking into the thick woods. Where the hell had he gone?

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