Page 111 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Molly let up on the gas, pressing softly on the brake, slowing the vehicle as she neared the house. A car was parked in the driveway. Was someone looting the ruins of her life? She saw her chickens pecking in the yard. She could see someone was poking around in the cavernous interior of the house. Molly reached for her phone, quickly dialing Sid as she pulled over just past the house.
Sid’s voicemail answered. Molly left a message. Putting down her phone, she debated. Approaching the house alone was more than likely foolhardy. If this person were the arsonist...
The man straightened and spotted her in her truck. The cornfield that lined the road was a green backdrop to her black vehicle.
He waved, a broad smile on his face.
Maynard! Their real-estate agent. Relief surged through Molly at his familiar face. She shifted the truck into driveand pulled onto her property. Once parked, Molly opened her door and jumped out as Maynard Clapton walked up to greet her. He stuck out his hand, and she took it, the handshake friendly.
“Your insurance company called me about some assessments. I am so sorry about what happened here.” He clicked his tongue, resting his hands on his hips. His khaki pants and polo shirt were smudged from his jaunt through the remains of the house. “I had no idea how bad it was.” He shook his head. “I moonlight as an insurance adjuster, and the insurance agency sent me out to report on the extent of the damage.”
Molly kicked a stone, and it went rolling across the drive. Izzy ruffled her feathers and squawked at it as if it were a predator. “Trent said they’re calling it a total loss.”
Maynard nodded. “Yes, they are.”
“So, what questions do they have?” Molly tried to understand why he was here if the insurance agency had already made their decision on the claim.
Maynard chuckled as he walked back toward the house, and Molly followed. He pointed to the remains. “All of this needs to be inventoried—if there’s anything salvageable, that is. But you don’t need to worry about it.” His warm brown eyes met hers. “I’m sure it’s traumatizing to look at. That’s what I’m for.”
“I can help you if you want,” Molly offered while trying to stuff down the annoying sensation that she would look into the open space of her old bedroom to see January Rabine’s hollow-eyed ghost staring down at her as she had that day on the stairs. The doctor had said it might happen again until the medications were balanced out.
The hairs on Molly’s arms rose as she neared the basement pit. Staring into it, she eyed the ashen remains. The plastic shelving Trent had installed was melted and warped. The gravestones intermingled with the fieldstone foundationwere covered in soot, the names barely legible on some of them, with a few dislodged and fallen to the floor. Evidence of water damage was everywhere, a few remaining puddles still in the corners that were devoid of sunlight.
Maynard held up his hand, a concerned expression on his face. “Really, Molly, you should go. There’s no need to put yourself through this.”
No. There wasn’t. He was right. Molly shot a longing glance at her truck. Maynard noticed. His hand tapped her forearm.
“Go ahead,” he urged, “I’ve got this.”
And he did. She managed one more glance back at the basement and froze. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze landed on the crawl space. For a brief flicker of a second, Molly would have sworn she saw the form of a young girl, a leering smile ... and then she vanished.
Molly blinked, attempting to regain focus.
“Molly?” Maynard prompted. “Are you all right?”
Molly took a few steps toward the basement, fixated on the crawl space. Why was there a crawl space? She remembered hiding in it, trying not to breathe in smoke. She didn’t remember Trent pulling her out or the fire crew carrying her to the ambulance. Trent said she was unconscious by the time he’d gotten to her.
Those last conscious moments inside the crawl space during the fire became clearer now. Molly stepped around the real-estate agent, or insurance adjuster, or whatever Maynard was moonlighting as today and made her way to what remained of the stairs leading to the basement. She took them carefully.
“Molly, it’s best you don’t go down there. It’s dangerous.” Maynard’s voice of caution sounded behind her, but she ignored him.
He was right.
There was no reason to go down there.
Molly’s mind grew foggy, almost enough to forget that the real-estate agent stood behind her, concern etched on his features.
The smoke had seeped into the cracks of the crawl space. It was midnight-black inside and she could see nothing. Putting out her hands, Molly felt only the cold earth beneath her fingers, her nails biting into it. Were these the last marks she would make before she died? Would she suffocate or burn alive?
Horror made Molly push her way until her back was against the far wall of the crawl space. Her hand connected with a cool object. Her fingers ran across metal ridges. The smoke was getting thicker, burning her lungs. In a desperate, foolish measure, Molly turned and pressed her mouth against the cool metal of what had to be a barrel stored in the back of the crawl space. There was no cooler oxygen rolling off it than there was coming in through the cracks at the opening. The long intake of air left Molly light-headed. Her fingers trailed down the side of the barrel as she drifted, her lungs aching from the black smoke.
Molly blinked, awareness flooding back in. She had hopped into the crawl space. Crazy. Anxiety seeped into her marrow. She shouldn’t be down here. Disoriented, Molly leaned against the crawl-space wall, her body in a crouch. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. The doctor had said if she started having an episode, the breathing would be helpful, just as in an anxiety attack. To rest. To log the episode.
Blinking quickly to clear her thoughts, Molly opened her eyes. Daylight flooded the crawl space from behind her. The basement was open to the air, a shell of what it had once been. Molly looked to where she’d hidden from the fire. From the arsonist. She saw an old barrel there. It looked to have been white at one time but was now a dingy gray, covered with rust. An old label clung to the side of the barrel, peeling off, damaged from smoke.
The sensation of danger struck her. This wasn’t smart. Hairs on her neck and arms stood even straighter, littlebumps rising on her skin. Molly moved to turn around and exit the crawl space. Trent would be furious if he knew she’d gone down here alone, with only Maynard as her backup.
Maynard. She didn’t know him well, outside of his being from the Kilbourn Clapton family tree. Why was he here again?
