Page 86 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
“We need to find out.” Molly stared her husband in the eyes so she could gauge his response. “Trent ... your dad, was he ever violent toward you?”
Trent pressed his lips together. His eyes darkened. “Why on earth would you ask that?”
“Is it true?” Molly ventured gently. “Are the Wasziak men ... is there a history of violence?”
Trent shook his head vehemently. “No.”
“I knowyou’renot,” Molly quickly inserted.
Trent didn’t smile at her letting him off the hook. He stared past her at her pillow for a moment before finally meeting her eyes. There was a bit of apology in his. What for, Molly didn’t know, so she waited and listened.
“My grandpa wasn’t exactly a warm guy. My dad tried not to be that way, but none of us are good with emotion. Grandpa was all about rules, truth, and God. You didn’t cross him. He was a tough man, but he was devoted to his faith too. I’m guessing Grandpa’s father—George Wasziak—probably wasn’t that much different. Heck, it takes a strong woman to love a Wasziak man.” Trent’s eyes softened for a moment when he looked at her. “But January was trying to turn familyproblems into some sort of murder history book.” This time, there was a firmness in Trent’s voice she had no intention of arguing with. “The men in my family may not be great with feelings—we’re factual, sometimes even a bit harsh—but Wasziak men aren’t violent, Molly. January was twisting history to fit her narrative, and—” Trent paused to suck in a deep breath—“I’m afraid she royally ticked someone off.”
“But not a Wasziak?” Molly led with caution.
Trent didn’t answer for a moment. He worked his jaw back and forth, winced, then set his mouth in a grim line. “No. Not a Wasziak. I can’t believe—no. I don’t know who, but it wasn’t one of us.”
29
Perliett
“You’ve all lost your minds!”
Perliett awoke to the stern baritone of George Wasziak. His words pierced through the pounding in her head as she lay on the guest bed in the Hannitys’ farmhouse.
“Now, George, all I’m saying is, you were seen...” It was Detective Poll’s voice.
“Are you arresting me? Is that it, Detective?”
Perliett tried to reason through the conversation she was overhearing. They were just outside her room. She was alone for the time being and did not know where Mrs. Hannity had gone and whether anyone had checked on her mother, who, for all Perliett knew, was still in the throes of a hypnotic unconsciousness.
“No. I’m not.” Detective Poll’s response was grave.
“Then leave me to see to my patient.”
“Not alone.”
“Fine!” The bedroom door opened with an unintentional slam against the wall. George barreled in, the dark hair hanging over his forehead unkempt and wild, his black eyes that intense darkness as a storm hit.
Perliett shrank back into the pillows, but George froze as he neared her, Detective Poll stationing himself in the doorway like a guard on watch.
George’s jaw flexed as he stared down at her, and Perliett couldn’t tell if he was incredulous, horrified, furious, or bewildered. Perhaps all four. He swallowed hard, sniffed, and seemed to be attempting to gather his wits.
If she had created this effect on Dr. Wasziak, what must she look like? Still, the very reason she was here in this bed was a consequence of the necessity to get help for her mother.
“My mother—”
“Is being tended to,” George interrupted.
“Miss Petra has gone to tend to her,” Detective Poll added from the doorway.
George cast him an irritated glance.
“Is she all right?” Perliett tried to rise on her elbows.
“She’s fine,” Detective Poll answered, either ignorant of or choosing to completely ignore George’s continued ire. He continued, “Mikey, Hannity’s son, helped fetch Miss Petra and returned here a bit ago. He said it appears your mother fainted.”
Fainted?
