Beach Thriller(78)
“Thank you,” Elizabeth says, falling back onto the pillows, exhausted.
“Why are you up here? I have so many questions about this family and all their secrets.”
“Oh, you aren’t going to ask me about her, too, are you? I don’t remember. I wish I knew, but it’s all so fuzzy…” Elizabeth trails off, yawning, her head lolling to one side.
“About who?” I ask.
Elizabeth’s eyes lock onto mine. I’m startled to see them look so alive. A fog has lifted, ushering in a sudden burst of lucidity. In a weak voice, she answers: “She worked here, like you … but she left, like most of the others … Nobody stays at Miramar for long, except for me, and I don’t matter anymore. I’ve done too many bad things.”
Her voice grows softer, like a toy running out of battery power. Her eyes drift shut. Next, I hear the soft inhale and exhale of each slow breath. Elizabeth has fallen back into a restful slumber. It’s probably the only peace she gets.
I pull the blankets up to her chin and say a silent prayer that somehow, someway, she’ll be okay.
I fear I’ve been here too long, that I’ve pushed my luck, and Conrad will return before I can safely escape the tower. I whisper a goodbye—not that Elizabeth hears me. I can’t imagine what her world must be like—every second lost in a haze of delirium and confusion, with Conrad offering her moments of reprieve like sips of life through a straw.
Before I go, I use my new phone to snap pictures of all of Elizabeth’s prescriptions.
It seems Elizabeth never left him at all. I text her: I think I know what happened to Conrad’s wife, Elizabeth.
Before I can attach the pictures of the prescription bottles and explain a little bit more, a noise makes my heart race into my throat.
Footsteps, coming up the stairs.
Chapter 42
Holly
Holly didn’t have an appointment with Allen Spellman, but she had plenty of questions for her lawyer. The glorious weather contrasted sharply with her sour mood. Sun bathed the cloudless sky, casting rays that promised a perfect beach day, but she had no intention of spending her afternoon on a beach chair trying to write.
If what the busker had said was true, everything had changed. Working backward and considering Allen’s age and lengthy career as a lawyer, Holly concluded there was a good chance Spellman had worked for the police department when key evidence went missing from Anna’s investigation. Did he take it? Was Spellman offered law school tuition in exchange for a favor? More important, who covered the bill? Follow the money, the busker had said. Holly intended to do just that.
Her determined steps carried her up a flight of stairs to Spellman’s second-floor office. She’d have liked Serena to accompany her, but Holly now had reservations about her psychic friend. Why didn’t she tell Jade that she sold necklaces just like the one that had lured her to Beauport? Holly didn’t want to confront Serena before she had a chance to talk to Jade. But first: Spellman.
She balled her hand into a tight fist, rapping her knuckles against the door, only half caring that she might be interrupting a meeting. This couldn’t wait, and some conversations had to happen face-to-face.
There was no answer, so Holly knocked again, this time much harder, allowing some of her anger to escape. Again, her forceful knocking resulted in silence.
Apprehension coiled at the nape of her neck. Glancing at her phone, Holly checked the time. Spellman might be out to lunch, but a faint inner voice told her something was wrong. Then it struck her—a faint odor she couldn’t quite identify. It was moderately sharp, biting, and distinct. It unsettled her enough that she knocked a third time, knowing no one would answer. She tested the doorknob, almost hoping it would be locked. It turned easily in her hand.
She pushed open the door, entering the waiting room. Everything was as it had been when she’d visited last. The lights were on. The blinds were open, letting in large pools of sunshine.
He must be here, Holly thought. The coffee maker had half a pot brewed with the warming light still on. But the coffee smelled stale, and that scent of other clung to the air—the indistinguishable odor that unsettled her.
“Allen?” Holly’s voice echoed. She called his name again and stepped toward his office, her movements hesitant. If he was in a meeting, it wasn’t private. The door was wide open. Yet everything was eerily silent.
Her chest tightened. She peered through the doorway. For a moment, she couldn’t process what she was seeing, but then her limbs turned to lead as she stared at Allen, slumped lifelessly over his desk. A strange sensation overtook her—almost like being pulled out of her body, drifting away for a moment—only to be rudely slammed back into awareness when the pungent stench of blood hit her nostrils.
Blood spatter covered his desk. It dripped onto the carpet, creating an abstract painting in various shades of burgundy. Near his lifeless hand lay a small, snub-nosed pistol—undoubtedly the weapon fired into Allen’s skull—leaving half his head a bloodstained, shattered mess. Flecks of white were scattered among the crimson pools.
Holly found her scream. It tore from her throat, bouncing off the walls and ricocheting like a hail of bullets.
* * *
Life may pass unnoticed, but judging by the crowds gathered outside Spellman’s office, death was a spectacle.