The Woman Next Door by T. M. Wright Page A

the sharp pinging noise and immediately remembered the night a week before. He lay still, waiting. Soon he heard the pinging noise again. Somehow it seemed more urgent. louder.
    He swung his feet to the floor, sat quietly another minute, considering. This night seemed even colder than the other one. Frost had started on the outer edges of his window; he imagined he could hear tree limbs cracking beyond it, telephone wires snapping, stray dogs and cats dying a quiet, cold death.
    "Greg?"
    It had been like a whisper, Greg thought—a shouted whisper, as if whoever had said his name was on the bed with him.
    He stood, went to the window, looked out.
    His first thought was that the boy should have a heavier coat on, and some gloves, boots, a hat. He had to be frozen stiff in that blue jacket and with only sneakers on his feet. But he was smiling.
    Greg shivered. He thought about getting his robe. Then he saw the boy wave to him. Come down here , he was saying.
    "Greg!" Greg heard again.
    Suddenly a vertical shaft of white light fell on the window from behind him. He turned his head sharply.
    "What are you doing out of bed at this hour?" Marilyn marched across the room, grabbed his arm. Her gaze fell briefly on the side yard. "Who's that?" she said, and decided in the next moment that she had seen nothing, only what her sleepiness and her frustration with Greg and the frosted-over window had shown her. Nothing.
    She led Greg to his bed, ordered him into it. "You get up again, young man, and we'll do more than talk."
    "Yes, Mommy." Greg heard the sniveling tone in his voice. "I'm sorry."
    "You should be."
    She left the room.
    Greg got back to sleep an hour later.

Chapter 17
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    B rett slowed the car and turned sharply right. A white saltbox house appeared. Abandoned now. He glanced ruefully at it; it was unpleasant to imagine that the owners of the house had died years ago. They had been a beautiful, generous couple, well into their seventies, obviously still very much in love:
    "Come in, come in." His name was Ralph Hauser, his wife's name Eileen. They were short, rotund people —cherubic, Brett remembered thinking. Cherubs with wrinkles and stories to tell. Ralph Hauser pointed at Brett's car, at the steam wafting into the still, warm morning air. "I see you got a little problem there."
    Brett nodded sullenly. "Afraid so." He introduced himself and Marilyn. They were on their honeymoon, he explained, and wasn't this a hell of a thing to happen on someone's honeymoon? Ralph Hauser laughed: "Sure it is, sure it is, but you'll be on your way soon enough. After you have some breakfast, we'll call Ernie's Garage and we'll say you're a friend of mine and Ernie will give ya extra-good service."
    The saltbox slipped past. Brett glanced back, saw the jagged scorch marks above the second-floor windows. He grimaced. Things change , he thought. Things change .
    Ernie's Garage appeared. Brett thought of stopping for some gas and wondered idly if Ernie would remember him. He looked at the gas gauge, saw that he had half a tankful . He looked up; Ernie's Garage was behind him, the cottage ahead. Only a couple miles.
    Andrea Ferraro's call had been a complete surprise. Though he hadn't put her out of his mind since their first meeting a week before—it would have been impossible—he had relegated her to a position of pleasant unimportance. Her sudden appearance in his life had been an anomaly; he hadn't expected it to be repeated. And then her phone call:
    "Mr. Courtney?"
    The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it. "Yes, who's calling?"
    "Andrea Ferraro." A pause. "Do you remember me?"
    He noted something taunting, something inviting, in her tone. "Yes," he answered, his voice low. "I remember you." And he could think of nothing else to say.
    "I'd like to talk with you, Mr. Courtney."
    "Yes."
    "Today, if possible."
    "I'm here till—" He reconsidered. "I can cancel some other appointments, Miss Ferraro, if it's