Page 71 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Molly side-eyed her. “You were certain it was a few days ago.”
Sid offered a sheepish smile. “Well, yeah. Back when it sounded fun, and I didn’t really believe it.”
Molly skimmed the newsprint, then flipped the paper. She shot Sid a victorious smile. “The paper’s from 1982.”
“See? This cannot be the Cornfield Ripper’s kit.”
“No. But what happened in 1982?”
“Do we care?” Sid quirked an eyebrow.
Molly read the paper’s headline. “I don’t know. Do we?”
“What does it say?” Sid leaned over her shoulder to read.
“Nothing all that interesting. Stock market report. Weather forecast. High school sports team scores.” Molly sat back on her heels. Disappointment was something she was very familiar with, and she didn’t like the way it crept in so quickly after her euphoric high that somehow this crate would provide answers. It was a long shot. Just a crateful of random items that could be found on any farm, and they shed no light on January’s murder or the century-old cold case.
“You know,” Sid began, her curiosity returning, “the Cornfield Ripper has never really made the news. I mean, not thenewsper se, but the list of national serial killers. It’s like he never existed.”
Molly let that sink in, even as she laid the newspaper back in the crate.
“Of course,” Sid continued, “they didn’t call them ‘serial killers’ back then. That term was coined later, as recently as the seventies with the appearances of Ted Bundy and the BTK Killer. Actually, you have to kill three or more people to be considered a serial killer, I think...Man, I watch too much crime TV.” Sid laughed.
Molly sensed Sid’s attention falling on her as her chattering waned. She couldn’t explain it, but Sid’s words had triggered something inside her. Afeeling. Molly peered into the corners of the attic. Nothing. No one was watching them.
“The Withers farm,” Molly mumbled.
“What’s that?” Sid asked.
Molly pushed herself off the floor. “This is the farm where the Withers sisters lived. Gladys called it the ‘murder house.’”
She hurried across the attic to look out the window. Her flock of chickens were pecking the yard, busy and oblivious to the world around them. The rooster, on the other hand, marched around like a sentinel. But she looked beyond them now. Toward the house. Toward her bedroom window.
The Withers sisters. Had it been the spirit of one of them she’d seen moving in the room from this very window? What if the little girl was the ghost of one of them, only as a child? What if the farm still held secrets about their deaths?
“I have to uncover them.” Molly’s mutter was more to herself than to Sid. She had almost forgotten Sid was there. She placed her hand on the glass and stared toward the bedroom window of the farmhouse, allowing her eyes to rove the side of the building. Had the killer watched them before they died? Had January’s killer watched her? She should ask herself why—why it was suddenly so important that she knew. That she finished whatever it was January had discovered. January Rabine’s murder was anything but random. It was tied, somehow, to the Withers sisters. Ithadto be. To the family’s history, and ultimately to Molly’s new home.
Trent eyed her from across the room. It was nighttime, but Molly was sitting up in bed, her laptop perched on her lap. She could feel Trent’s inquiring gaze. He’d watched her retire to bed by seven o’clock for so many nights, the fact that it was going on nine was an anomaly in her behavior.
“What are you working on?” He extricated himself from his T-shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing it into the overflowing dirty-laundry pile.
Molly hesitated, momentarily distracted by his muscled back, his toned biceps, his ridiculously funny farmer’s tan. She hid a smile, both out of respect for the man’s ego and because she was a bit surprised she’d noticed. Noticedhim. After their last confrontation, they hadn’t spoken much. Shewas willing to bet on all her new chickens’ lives—except Sue. Sue was her favorite, or maybe it was Myrtle, or Chloe, or heavens! She loved them all now! But anyway, she was willing to bet that Trent wouldn’t be happy with her internet search history.
He unbuttoned his jeans.
She dropped her gaze to her laptop, heat rising to her cheeks. Well, this was unexpected.
There was silence as Trent tugged off his jeans and then slid into a pair of shorts. The bedroom was stifling with summer humidity. Yes. That was it. Humidity. He crossed the room to the window and hiked it up until it was fully open.
“I’m going to put a fan in the window.”
Molly nodded.
Their inane conversation was as stifling as the air. She dared a glance at Trent. His back was already glistening with sweat. His shoulders were—wow—Molly distracted herself with her research. She’d forgotten how broad they were. She’d forgotten about the birthmark on his right shoulder that she used to kiss over and over until he’d pay attention to her. It’d been months since they...
She jammed the enter button on her computer a little too hard.
Trent sank onto the edge of the bed, swung his legs on top of the covers, and leaned back against the headboard. “You’re up to something.” His voice was gravelly with tiredness yet touched with curiosity.
