Whispers from the Dead by Joan Lowery Nixon Page A

rose majestically, flipping her tail with a snap of irritation.
    Through the window by the door I saw Tony and stopped, catching my breath, as his eyes met mine. I smiled, not trying to hide my delight, and hurried to open the door.
    “I was in the neighborhood and thought this would be a good time to meet your mother,” Tony said as he stepped inside and shut the door.
    The air turned cold, and the walls of the entry hall seemed to press inward. My head pounded and I silently screamed at Rosa,
No! Not now! Go away! You can’t do this to me now!
    Gasping for breath, I grabbed Tony’s hand and tugged him past the entry hall, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. I let go and leaned against thenearest counter, breathing heavily. Whatever I had felt in the entry hall had gone.
    But Tony was studying me, and it surprised me that his eyes had narrowed in the same way that Dinky narrowed hers, with light seeming to gleam from under the lashes. “What’s the matter, Sarah?” he asked me.
    “Nothing. I’m fine.” I tried to shrug off what had happened. “I’ve been working hard unpacking books. I guess I got a little out of breath.” I opened the refrigerator door, wanting desperately to talk about something else. “How about a soft drink?”
    “Sure,” he said, “but I can only stay for a few minutes.” He looked at his watch and glanced back through the living room. “Where’s your mother?”
    “Oh. Mom. She left to run errands. She won’t be back for a few hours.”
    Tony smiled. Did I imagine that he looked relieved? “My bad timing,” he said. “Well, as long as I’m here, I’ll help you unpack the books.”
    “Thanks, but you said you could only stay a few minutes. You won’t have time.”
    His smile was easy. “I’ll make time.”
    We took our soft drinks into the den, and Tony worked beside me, making the job go much faster. Our conversation consisted of his asking, “Where do these go?” and my telling him, “On the bottom shelf over there” or “Right here, next to the gardening books,” until he suddenly stopped, took the books I was holding out of my hands, and led me to the sofa.
    “We need a break,” he said. “I want a chance to talkto you.” He didn’t let go of my hand, and I was glad. I didn’t want him to.
    “Tell me about yourself,” Tony said.
    “There’s not much to tell. We used to live in Missouri until Dad was transferred here to Houston.”
    “That’s not about
you
,” he insisted, and leaned closer, staring into my eyes as though he could see what was in my mind. “I want to know about Sarah, the things that make her happy, the things she likes, even the things that frighten her.” His voice was low, almost a whisper.
    His question puzzled me. “Why should you want to know what frightens me?”
    “Something frightens you,” he said. He stroked my hand. “Look. You’re trembling.”
    Maybe it was Tony who frightened me. Or the way he made me feel. I wasn’t sure.
    “If it’s the house,” he said, “maybe I can help you.”
    He leaned back, breaking the spell, and I took a long shuddering breath. “How could you help me?”
    “You’re forgetting. I know Adam. I know the story about the murder.”
    “Did Adam tell you why he did it?”
    Tony threw me a quick sideways glance. “There wasn’t much doubt. He was on medication for a couple of things—an antibiotic he was taking because of a viral infection and a steroid he was taking to build himself up for the football team. He’d been having trouble with depression, too, and a doctor had given him something for that. Adam said he was so over-medicated, he didn’t know what he was doing.”
    “But murder?” I asked. “How could anyone not know he was killing someone?”
    Tony bristled. “I’m on Adam’s side,” he said. “I don’t want him to go to prison.”
    “There’s not much chance of that, is there?” I knew I sounded bitter, because Tony gave me another sharp