Page 49 of From the Darkness

“Yes. There was only a little light coming from under the door. But I felt like I should investigate. It could have been a fire,” the housekeeper responded as she crossed the room and turned off the computer.

As Bree moved toward the door, Mrs. Martindale backed up. In the hall, Bree handed over the flashlight.

She still felt uncomfortable, but there was nothing she could do about that. Probably the less she said about her visit to the office, the better.

Yet questions were still buzzing in her mind. And maybe it was easier to speak in the darkened hallway.

“I had a question about Helen London,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Was it Ms. London who invited the Sterlings to come here?”

“Certainly not! She didn’t know a thing about it.”

“How do you know?”

“I wrote her a letter, telling her what was happening. And she wrote me back.”

“Oh. Yes,” she answered, wishing that the woman’s answers would match Troy’s.

Figuring she was going to arouse suspicion if she kept probing, Bree took her leave of the housekeeper and made her way to the backstairs, feeling the woman watch her progress.

Still, it looked like she’d gotten off easy—if Mrs. Martindale kept her word and didn’t blab to Nola.

Back in her room, she shut and locked the door, leaning back against the stout wooden barrier as she exhaled a long breath. It made her feel safer to lock herself in. But she knew it was a false sense of security. Anyone who wanted to get to her could do it, by coming down the tunnel, through the far entrance that she hadn’t been able to find.

For that matter, they could spring the lock on the door—or break it down.

Unbidden, the image of a crazed Jack Nicholson in an old movie calledThe Shiningleaped into her mind. She’d been around eleven years old, watching television one evening while Mom was out with her friends.The Shininghad come on after another movie.

She’d heard about it, and she decided to watch. Big mistake. Soon she was so frightened by the violent images on the screen that she couldn’t move. Instead, she’d sat there, watching scenes that made the hair on the back of her neck feel like knives stabbing into her flesh. Then Jack Nicholson, intent on killing his wife and child, had battered through the door to their apartment with an ax and stuck his head through the opening. Grinning maniacally, he’d said, “Honey, I’m home.”

The image still made her shudder. She didn’t really think anyone would come after her with an ax. Probably it would be something more subtle. Like, Mrs. Martindale could always slip some poison into her tuna sandwich.

Stop it, she warned herself. Mrs. Martindale isn’t the enemy. But she wouldn’t bet her life on that.

Better get a good night’s rest, she told herself, starting to unbutton her blouse. She paused after she’d opened a few buttons and looked around nervously. Then she sighed. What was she planning to do? Sleep in her clothing.

Resolutely, she pulled out a nightgown, took it into the bathroom, and closed the door. After turning on the water in the shower to let it get hot, she took off her clothes and laid them on the sink. The key she’d found taped to the bottom of the desk drawer was still in her pocket.

Briefly she considered hiding it somewhere in the room. But her room had been searched before. It could be searched again.

After adjusting the water, she stepped into the claw-foot tub and pulled the shower curtain that encircled it.

The hot water was like a balm to her jangled nerves. Turning, she let the spray pound on her back for a couple of minutes before reaching for the soap and began to wash her body.

It was such an ordinary action. Something she did every day. Washing herself. Yet this time, her hand stopped in the act of soaping her breast—as she imagined that someone was observing her.

Her free hand clenched. She’d been thinking how easy it would be for someone to come into the room. Now her gaze shot to the shower curtain. It was translucent, and she saw a hazy image of the bathroom fixtures.

But that was all. There was no one standing in the room. Still, just to make sure, she stuck her head around the curtain and peered out, the cold air from the room chilling her skin and making her nipples tighten.

The scene hadn’t changed. Nobody was there.

With a sigh, she withdrew behind the curtain again. Defying her attack of nerves, she poured shampoo into her hand. Closing her eyes, she worked lather in her hair. She was finger combing the shampoo into her scalp when she felt it again—the sensation of eyes on her.

Stop it,she ordered herself.

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