Page 23 of Nightmare

My body jerks, just a touch. I nod, promising I’ll get him what he needs, and then I leave the office. Palms sweating, I walk out onto the street, trying to figure out my next move. I have to do better. I need more. I can’t tiptoe around Western anymore, I have to dive right in. He’ll never talk to me if I don’t. Without him, this story is nothing. I have to do this, and I have to do it right.

Glancing down at my watch, I see I have four hours until my shift starts. Long enough for me to go and talk to Braithe’s mom. I know where she lives—everyone knows where she lives—but that isn’t the problem. The problem is, she doesn’t like talking to anyone, and I’m certain I’ll be no different. I need a different angle, something else to get her to pay attention, to talk, to let me in.

As I walk toward my car, I come up with a plan.

It’s a risky plan, but if she so much as suspects I’m a reporter, or even close to being someone who is digging a little too deep, she won’t let me in.

I have to be smarter.

Arriving at her house, I get out of my car and stare up at the large home that is overgrown and falling apart. She has never left it, but in turn, she hasn’t taken care of it either. The garden, which I have no doubt was once beautiful, is a mass of overgrown weeds. Amongst the weeds, I can see a glimpse of a beautiful garden seat, that is now covered in green moss and is basically part of the weed system.

Walking up the front path, that is also overgrown, the grass almost as tall as me, I manage to make my way up the front steps and onto the porch. It’s dusty up here, and it’s clear it hasn’t been hosed down or tidied up in a very long time. Doesn’t she have any family? Someone who might want to come and help her? Maybe they did and she pushed them away. It’s hard to know, there isn’t much around about her situation.

Glancing at the old porch swing that is rusted and breaking, my heart hurts for the woman who lost her entire family. What if Western did do this? What if he really is capable of such horror. The thought is overwhelming, and I find myself needing to stop and take a few deep breaths. Maybe I shouldn’t be so nice to someone who could have sent this woman into a long tunnel of depression.

Even as I think it, my heart screams at me that he didn’t do it.

I don’t know what it is or why I feel so strongly about that, but it’s just a gut instinct, and I have to pray it’s the right one.

If it isn’t, I’m befriending a murderer.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath in and open the rickety screen door. The timber door behind it is closed, and as I knock, dust flies off, causing me to take a step back. Swatting at my face, I clear the dust and then knock again. Footsteps on the inside alert me that she’s in there, but the door doesn’t open. Of course she doesn’t want to answer it, hell, she has probably had so many people coming to this door to talk with her.

Here goes nothing.

“Mrs. Gregory? I know you’re in there and you don’t want to talk to anyone. I understand. My name is Bonnie, and I just want to talk to someone who might understand. A friend of mine had dealings with the club that went wrong, and I don’t know how to help her. I thought ... I just thought you might be able to help or know someone I can talk to. I have nobody else.”

I hate that I’m talking about a club I know nothing about, but I figure it’s the only way she’ll let me in.

She might want to help me, she might want to give me information or someone to go to. I can only hope it’ll touch a spot in her that will make her open that door.

She doesn’t.

“Please,” I say softly. “I’m not here to cause any harm. Nobody will listen to me, and I was hoping you could give me a name of someone willing to hear me out. I think she could be in danger.”

Silence.

“I know you lost so much. I can’t even imagine. I’m only asking for a minute of your time. I just want to help my friend.”

Guilt slams into my chest.

I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a liar.

Pete’s words ring in my head. If I’m not willing to go in and give it everything I’ve got, then I’m not cut out for this job.

This is all I’ve ever wanted to be. It’s who I am.

Which means I have no choice but to lie on occasion to get what I want.

It feels so incredibly wrong.

The door creaks, and I’m surprised.

Taking a small step back, I watch as a woman appears. She looks nothing like the photos in newspapers and articles that I’ve read. Gone is the youthful smile, the bright blue eyes, and the soft blond hair. In its place is a woman who looks like the light has just been dragged from her eyes. What was once blue, is now grey. What was once blond, is now a faded, mousy color that is ratty and unkempt. She’s tiny, frail, and her skin has aged a great deal. She isn’t even that old, so it breaks my heart to see that she looks double the age that she is.

“I can’t help you.”

The words come out of her mouth in a croaky but soft tone.

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