given, and waited as the phone rang a dozen times or more, there was no answer. Karen Overmeyer had said all she was willing to say.
Chapter 12
W HEN R EED ARRIVED AT the McCoy house the following day, she hesitated. Link hadn’t shown up to walk her to the pine grove, and she’d enjoyed being alone. But now, looking up at the door and remembering the call from Karen, her stomach felt as if gremlins were gnawing at her. At the same time, she couldn’t wait to get inside. Strange, conflicting feelings. Shaking her head, Reed hurried into the house.
She was halfway through the first of two thick stacks of fan mail when she heard the noise for the first time. A rustling sound, like crisp October leaves brushing against each other. At first, Reed thought it was Poe, awakening in his cage. But when she got up and walked over to listen, she heard nothing. He was still asleep beneath the covering.
She went back to the desk, but didn’t begin typing again right away. When she had listened for a few moments, head cocked, and heard only silence, she picked up the second pile of fan mail envelopes and began flipping through them, stopping with a frown as she realized that one of the envelopes didn’t have a personal return address label on it like the others.
She pulled the envelope from the pile and studied it. The return address was a business address. “The McIntyre Group,” the label read, followed by a San Diego address.
Someone must have written McCoy a fan letter from their place of business. Maybe on their lunch hour. Or maybe when they were supposed to be working.
Reed slid the letter from its casing and unfolded it.
The heading, centered at the top of the crisp white page, read, “The McIntyre Group” and underneath that, “Quality Medical Care for Those You Love.”
It wasn’t a letter. It was a bill. For medical care for one Victoria McCoy of La Jolla, California, at a facility called Brooklawn.
Embarrassed, Reed quickly refolded the bill and slipped it back inside its envelope. Then she didn’t know what to do with it. She couldn’t very well stick it in with the fan mail. If she did, it would get mailed without the check required. But if she left it sitting off all by itself on a corner of the desk, wouldn’t McCoy know she had opened and looked at it?
Well, so what? It wasn’t her fault the letter was mixed in with the fan mail.
Reed set it aside and began typing again.
When the sound came again, it was still distant, but loud enough to reach her ears over the clickety-clack of the old typewriter. A rustling, scratching sound. Squirrels, maybe? But not on the roof. This sound came from somewhere in the room. No, not in the room. Below it. Was there a basement? An old-fashioned cellar?
Squirrels in the cellar, was that what she’d heard?
There was a long, narrow window directly behind Reed’s desk. It was flanked on both sides by precariously tilting bookshelves. When she stood up, the brass raven looking down upon her from the top shelf caught her eye. If she had a ladder, she’d climb up it and turn the bird around so that she could no longer see its glittering eyes. But she didn’t have a ladder.
She walked back to the window and slid it open several inches to listen for squirrels scampering across the roof.
She heard nothing.
But the fresh air was a relief, diluting the damp, mildewy smell. Leaving the window open, she returned to her desk, donning her ski jacket against the cold.
She heard no more rustling sounds, only the noise of campus activities from beyond the trees. Tires squealing, an occasional shout, the marching band practicing. Those sounds were reassuring, telling her she wasn’t as isolated as the house made her feel.
When she had finished, boredom quickly set in. Only three-twenty. She could write a letter to her parents. Or file her nails. Maybe leaf through one of the hundreds of books slopping over the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
Or …
Reaching down, she pulled
Chapter 12
W HEN R EED ARRIVED AT the McCoy house the following day, she hesitated. Link hadn’t shown up to walk her to the pine grove, and she’d enjoyed being alone. But now, looking up at the door and remembering the call from Karen, her stomach felt as if gremlins were gnawing at her. At the same time, she couldn’t wait to get inside. Strange, conflicting feelings. Shaking her head, Reed hurried into the house.
She was halfway through the first of two thick stacks of fan mail when she heard the noise for the first time. A rustling sound, like crisp October leaves brushing against each other. At first, Reed thought it was Poe, awakening in his cage. But when she got up and walked over to listen, she heard nothing. He was still asleep beneath the covering.
She went back to the desk, but didn’t begin typing again right away. When she had listened for a few moments, head cocked, and heard only silence, she picked up the second pile of fan mail envelopes and began flipping through them, stopping with a frown as she realized that one of the envelopes didn’t have a personal return address label on it like the others.
She pulled the envelope from the pile and studied it. The return address was a business address. “The McIntyre Group,” the label read, followed by a San Diego address.
Someone must have written McCoy a fan letter from their place of business. Maybe on their lunch hour. Or maybe when they were supposed to be working.
Reed slid the letter from its casing and unfolded it.
The heading, centered at the top of the crisp white page, read, “The McIntyre Group” and underneath that, “Quality Medical Care for Those You Love.”
It wasn’t a letter. It was a bill. For medical care for one Victoria McCoy of La Jolla, California, at a facility called Brooklawn.
Embarrassed, Reed quickly refolded the bill and slipped it back inside its envelope. Then she didn’t know what to do with it. She couldn’t very well stick it in with the fan mail. If she did, it would get mailed without the check required. But if she left it sitting off all by itself on a corner of the desk, wouldn’t McCoy know she had opened and looked at it?
Well, so what? It wasn’t her fault the letter was mixed in with the fan mail.
Reed set it aside and began typing again.
When the sound came again, it was still distant, but loud enough to reach her ears over the clickety-clack of the old typewriter. A rustling, scratching sound. Squirrels, maybe? But not on the roof. This sound came from somewhere in the room. No, not in the room. Below it. Was there a basement? An old-fashioned cellar?
Squirrels in the cellar, was that what she’d heard?
There was a long, narrow window directly behind Reed’s desk. It was flanked on both sides by precariously tilting bookshelves. When she stood up, the brass raven looking down upon her from the top shelf caught her eye. If she had a ladder, she’d climb up it and turn the bird around so that she could no longer see its glittering eyes. But she didn’t have a ladder.
She walked back to the window and slid it open several inches to listen for squirrels scampering across the roof.
She heard nothing.
But the fresh air was a relief, diluting the damp, mildewy smell. Leaving the window open, she returned to her desk, donning her ski jacket against the cold.
She heard no more rustling sounds, only the noise of campus activities from beyond the trees. Tires squealing, an occasional shout, the marching band practicing. Those sounds were reassuring, telling her she wasn’t as isolated as the house made her feel.
When she had finished, boredom quickly set in. Only three-twenty. She could write a letter to her parents. Or file her nails. Maybe leaf through one of the hundreds of books slopping over the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
Or …
Reaching down, she pulled
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