Page 40 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
“Trent really knows nothing?” His question was laden with disbelief.
Molly shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She glanced out the window, just over Uncle Roger’s shoulder. Leave it to the Clapton brothers to keep Trent hung up at the farm until well into the evening. Story of her life.
“I’m sorry,” she responded, mentally chiding herself for saying sorry for the tenth time that night. “Like I said, we only—heonly found January. That’s all. We didn’t even know she was in the area.”
“She hadn’t reached out to you?” Gemma’s blue eyes were sharp. Assessing.
“No.” Molly shook her head.
“I can believe that.” Roger sighed. “I’m her own grandfather and she hadn’t even called to let me know she was here.”
Tiffany retrieved a clean paper napkin from the holder in the middle of the table. She dabbed at renegade tears that left track marks through her haphazardly dusted-on makeup. Brandon reached over and gripped her hand, but his blue eyes—like Gemma’s—landed on Molly.
“We had to identify January today. At the county morgue.”
Molly bit her tongue before she saidI’m sorryfor the eleventh time.
“Why on earth was she here in Kilbourn?” Brandon voiced the question they all wanted to know. “Why not tell us she was coming? Talk to you, Dad, or reach out to family like Trent and Molly here?” Brandon swept his hand to encompass them in his speech.
Gemma reached for a potato chip, snapping it between her fingers. “If the police would let us see her things, then we’d be able to understand. Januaryalwayskept a journal. They’re probably scouring her private thoughts for clues.” There was an edge to Gemma’s voice. Molly couldn’t blame her. The idea of losing a sister to murder was incomprehensible. Not to mention the police hadn’t released the details of how she’d died or what might have occurred before her death based onthe autopsy report. That left open-ended questions that were unsettling. Had she been assaulted? Brutalized?
Molly reached for her can of Coke and took a swig. Gosh, she’d give anything for Trent to make a heroic entrance now and save her from the horridness of this dinner.
“She didn’t keep her journal in the Cloud?” Molly’s question came without censuring it first. She regretted it the moment she said it, but it surprised her when Gemma’s head shot up and an anticipatory light glowed in her eyes.
“I never thought of that!” She pushed away from the table. “I need to get my iPad from the car. I’m sure I can figure out January’s email password and then access her Cloud drive. If her journal isn’t on there, she may have left notes. Clues.”
“That’swhy the police asked me if I knew January’s passwords,” Tiffany mumbled.
“They asked you that?” Brandon frowned.
Tiffany nodded.
“They must think similarly,” he concluded.
The screen door slammed off the mudroom as Gemma made a hasty exit.
Tiffany sniffed. She crumpled her napkin, then addressed Molly. “I’m sorry,” she began in a watery voice. “Do you have any tissues?” Tears were brimming again.
“Of course. Just a sec.” Molly was eager to leave the table, and she shot out of the room like a guilty man from a courtroom. She didn’t know why she felt guilty.
Sagging against the hallway wall, Molly tried to focus on where she’d stored the extra stash of tissue boxes.
Who saw him die? I, said the Fly.
She froze. The words were a hissed whisper in her ear. Molly shrank into the wall as if she could merge with it. She heard the murmurs of her guests’ voices in the dining room. But the whisper. It was in her ear, hot breath on her neck, but it also came from...
Molly looked to her right. Into a back room where thelaundry was located, a back door exit, and the stairs leading to the basement.
With my little eye, I saw him die.
She took a tentative step into the room.
Who caught his blood? I, said the Fish.
Molly’s feet were at the top step leading to the basement. How she’d gotten there so quickly, she couldn’t explain. But the crooked, narrow wooden stairs beckoned her downward. The basement was a cavernous hole, dark at the bottom with cool, damp air that met Molly’s nostrils—a moldy scent of moisture mixed with age.
A stair creaked beneath her weight.
