The bottom-left-hand drawer was a file drawer, crowded with colored folders and black ink with handwritten block letters labeling each one.
I started reading labels. Red folders were for telephone, water, electricity, garbage. Behind those were yellow folders—plumber, dry cleaning, newspaper, health insurance, life insurance.
Behind the yellow folders was a set of green ones. I skipped over the listings of checking account and savings account folders and went straight to the pay dirt folder with its hand-printed label, “Tarver Foundation.”
“Should have looked there first,” Agnes said. Even her ghost was on the outside edge of tactless.
Imaginary ghost, I amended in my head. The fact gave me courage enough to talk back, something I wouldn’t have done in a million years to the real Agnes.
I pulled out the Tarver Foundation folder and slapped it on the desk. “Your snide comments aren’t helping, thank you very much.” I flipped open the folder as I talked. “Did you ever think that maybe your attitude is what got you killed? If you’d been a nicer person, maybe I wouldn’t be pawing through your desk tonight.”
The top paper was an invoice from Browne and Browne for an eye-popping sum. “What was wrong with you, anyway? Okay, your husband dumped you after a year. So what? You had half a lifetime to get over it.” The second paper was from Bick and outlined the proposed construction schedule. “Are these the papers that are going to tell me who the killer is? I certainly hope so, because—”
Darkness descended. Before I could think much beyond “Hey!” the dark was followed by a warm, heavy weight. A wide band circled my neck; I couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I reached through the blanket to grab away the pressure and felt hands—large and strong ones.
“Do what I say and you live,” said a low whisper.
Another option would have been nice, but I didn’t think it was going to be offered.
“You going to fight?”
My instincts warred between the atavistic urge to claw at the hands that held me and fear for Jenna and Oliver. If I was killed, what would happen to them?
“No,” I said aloud, though it sounded more like a croak. The tight collar around my neck made it hard to say anything. “No,” I said again. “No fighting.” I let go of his thick hands.
“Up,” he commanded.
Fear banged around in me, knotting my stomach, and shortening my breath. I was used to fear; we mothers know all about how that emotion weasels into the fabric of our life, coloring every action and decision with a rim of red. We’re afraid of getting our kids vaccinated; we’re afraid of not getting them vaccinated. We’re afraid of pushing them too hard, afraid of not pushing them hard enough. We’re afraid of car accidents, bicycle accidents, skateboard accidents. We’re afraid of colds, flu, and every type of cancer that hits the news.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
Going to do with me, is what I really meant. Where was he taking me? Was it going to be unpleasant, painful, and/or cold? Was I going to be shoved into Agnes’s refrigerator and have the door shut on me? “She was alive last time I saw her,” he’d be able to say truthfully.
“Shut up.” His fierce whisper carried a threat that lifted the hair on my arms. He meant what he said.
I nodded. “Up,” he said again, and this time I stood. So much for all those articles that cautioned against following the orders of an attacker. Point B was always more dangerous than Point A, but in this case Point A wasn’t exactly a place of safety and sunshine.
We moved out of the study and started an awkward walk down the hall. With one of his hands on my neck like a firm collar and his other hand tight on my upper arm, our feet kept banging into each other.
For a short moment I debated tripping him intentionally. The scenario played out in front of me like a movie. Potential victim is marched down a hallway, sees an opportunity, trips the evildoer. Evildoer does not release grip on victim as he falls, but he hangs on to the frail neck and uses victim to cushion his crash to the floor. Evildoer’s elbow jabs into victim’s abdomen, knocking the wind out of her.
Without breath, she cannot run. Without breath, she cannot even scream as Evildoer, in a rage at her efforts to escape, squeezes her throat until there are no more breaths.
So much for that plan.
“Keep moving.”
He pushed me, and I moved forward. It seemed unlikely that he’d lead me straight into a wall, but my experience with bad guys was minimal. The closest I’d come to witnessing a felonious assault was in a parking lot after a Northwestern vs. Wisconsin football game.
“Oh . . .” I stumbled forward a step and was jerked back upright by Iron Grip. Choking and gasping, I regained my footing and realized the flooring had changed from carpet to linoleum. We’d made it to the dining area, and I’d tripped over the little piece of trim that kept the carpet in place.
Don’t kill me, I pleaded silently. My children needed me. My bookstore needed me. My siblings needed me—or they might one of these days. My mother would be disappointed at having to plan a funeral for a single daughter. My cat would miss me, the dog will be sent back to the animal shelter, and who would volunteer to be the PTA’s secretary?
Inside my blanket, which was getting warm and steamy from too many of my breaths, I looked at my last thought. Did the role really mean that much to me? I’d taken it on, thinking I could retire permanently after a year, but there was so much to do. The afternoon Erica had stopped by to give gardening advice, we’d come up with a dozen projects. A year wasn’t enough; two years wouldn’t be enough. If I wasn’t careful, I’d end up like Randy, a lifer on Tarver’s PTA committee.
If I had a life.
I stood up a tiny bit straighter. He pinched my neck hard, and I sank back down again. Okay, if I couldn’t act brave, I’d try to think brave. Be smart. Pay attention. Pick up clues. Do something useful. All those mysteries and thrillers I’d read must have some practical application. Jack Reacher would have overpowered Iron Grip in an instant, so he wasn’t much use as my role model. Best to stick to my own gender. What would V. I. Warshawski have done in my situation? Sharon McCone, Tess Monaghan, Anna Pigeon? Harriet Vane? Even Miss Marple would be doing something.
That was it: Miss Marple. She’d be noticing things. I could do that. And why hadn’t I already?
I wasted half a step in self-recrimination, then tried to pay attention. Was he wearing any cologne? Washed with a scented soap, used a perfumed deodorant, had garlic for dinner? I sniffed quietly. Nothing.
Sight was no good with a blanket over my head, so what was left? Taste, but all I could get was the metallic and slightly bloody taste of adrenaline.
“Stop,” he whispered.
Sound. I could hear. And touch. Maybe I’d be able to sneak a feel of his clothing or even him. How long was his hair? Did he have a beard or mustache?
A door creaked open. “Down the stairs,” he said. The last s slid into a hiss. I was sure that s would haunt my dreams for years—assuming that I had years left to me.
“Down,” he whispered.
I edged forward until the front ends of my shoes curled down over air. Through the blanket I felt for the handrail. The grip was slippery, but I gained a small sense of comfort from the rail’s existence.
Down one stair. Down another. When I had both feet on the third stair, the door slammed shut behind me. I whirled around and almost fell down the rest of the stairs. I started to shout, but the memory of his threat kept me from calling out. Maybe he hadn’t meant it, but maybe he had.