Don't Cry. Beverly BartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
held the blanket-wrapped bundle was not part of the normal routine.
Her voice momentarily faltered.
“Keep singing,” he told her.
She continued with the lullaby, repeating the words over and over, making up new verses as she went along.
Within minutes, he came up behind her again, but instead of standing guard over her, he reached around her and laid a small pillow across her lap. Since that first time when he had placed what she had thought was a doll in her arms, she had avoided glancing down at it, but she looked at her lap, at the age-yellowed white satin pillow trimmed with tattered blue ribbons. It was a baby’s pillow.
“Do what you know you must do,” he said.
“I don’t understand.”
“You must send him to heaven where he’ll be one of the little angels.”
“What? I don’t know what you mean. What do you want me to do?”
“Pick up the pillow.”
She did.
“Lay it gently over his face.”
She did.
“Hold it there and keep singing and rocking him until he goes to sleep.”
Until he goes to sleep?
Realization dawned. Until he’s dead.
“You want me to smother him?” she asked.
“You don’t want him to suffer any longer, do you?”
She lifted the pillow and placed it over the bundle she held.
“It’ll all be over soon,” the man’s voice whispered softly…sadly.
Believing he meant the make-believe child in her arms would soon stop breathing, she felt a sense of immediate relief when he lifted the pillow, put it in her lap, and took the bundle from her. For now, it was over. He would tie her wrists to the chair and leave her here. Until the next time.
In the beginning, she had tried to get away from him, but each time he’d caught her before she had gotten more than a few feet. After being shoved onto the floor, face down, several times, she had stopped trying to escape.
She waited there in the rocking chair, waited for him to tie her wrists to the arms and then leave her. But when he reached around her from behind, there were no ropes in his hands.
Instead, he lifted the pillow from her lap and brought it up and over her face. She didn’t realize what he intended to do, not until he pushed the pillow against her face and held it there.
Chapter 4
Audrey had spent a restless night, tossing and turning, waking every hour or so from the time she had finally fallen asleep at midnight until a few seconds ago when she had shot straight up in bed. She glanced at the bedside clock—5:40 A.M.—and groaned. Damn it, she’d been dreaming. Crazy dreams. The kind that didn’t make any sense, but that were nevertheless all too real and somewhat unnerving. As a child, she had been prone to nightmares, especially after Blake’s disappearance. Jumbled, chaotic, frightening dreams. But as an adult, she rarely remembered her dreams.
Unfortunately, she recalled exactly what she’d been dreaming when she awoke so suddenly. She and J.D. Cass had been dancing, just as they had been last night at Willie’s birthday party. Except in the dream, they had been alone, just the two of them, and he had kissed her.
It would never happen. Not in a million years.
If and when you see him again, you’ll be cordial to him and yet distant. Whatever was going on last night between the two of you meant no more to him than it did to you. It was nothing more than a harmless flirtation.
But her unwanted attraction to J.D. Cass was minor compared to what was really troubling her. If only she could lay all the blame for her restless night on her encounter with J.D., it would be easy enough to dismiss. In the course of that one evening, she’d come face-to-face with far more than an unwanted attraction to a man she instinctively disliked. Troubled family relationships and personal insecurities were far more to blame for her discontent.
She couldn’t dismiss her concerns about Hart or her regrets about her relationship with her father. Until last night, she hadn’t seen her stepbrother in weeks, not since she had bought him the new suit for his job interview. When she hadn’t heard from him and he hadn’t answered her phone calls, she had contacted Garth. He’d told her that Hart had gotten cold feet at the last minute and had blown off the interview.
“He can’t face you right now,” Garth had said. “He feels pretty lousy about disappointing you again, especially after you not only lined up the interview for him, but bought him some new duds, too.”
Uncle Garth always made excuses for Hart, always played the role of protector. They had disagreed more than once on what to do to help Hart. She had finally given up trying to persuade Garth that maybe a little tough love would do more good than continuously enabling Hart to make poor choices.
Garth Hudson had his faults, but no one could accuse him of not loving his nephew. He had gone that extra mile for Hart so many times she’d lost count. He had paid for Hart’s repeated rehab treatments. He’d given him a place to live when he’d been between jobs, which he was on a regular basis. And he’d called in favors several times to keep Hart out of jail.
Hart had faced her last night with a shy smile and a sincere apology. He’d been apologizing to her for one thing or another since they were kids. And she always forgave him for whatever misdeeds he’d committed. With his big blue eyes, so like little Blake’s, and his sweet, boyish smile, Hart could be irresistibly convincing.
God knew Hart was his own worst enemy. If only he could get his act together and not keep screwing up. And if pigs had wings, they could fly.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you, sis. You and Uncle Garth,” he’d said last night during their brief conversation. “I don’t know why either of you put up with me.”
“Because we love you.”
She did love Hart. He was family. They shared a history. They had survived Blake’s kidnapping, Enid’s suicide, and her father’s complete emotional withdrawal. They were irrevocably bound by the scars of their childhood tragedies.
Hart had promised they’d get together soon, that he’d drop by or they could meet for lunch one day. “I’ve got a line on another job,” he’d told her. “It’s minimum wage, but at least I could start paying Uncle Garth some room and board.”
That indefinite promise from Hart that they’d see each other again soon had been more than she’d gotten from her father during their brief conversation. Her dad had mentioned how pretty her dress was and told her he was glad to see her. But he hadn’t looked her in the eye, hadn’t smiled at her, and certainly hadn’t hugged her. She had asked how he was enjoying his retirement and he’d mentioned that he was doing a lot of fishing. Audrey couldn’t remember one time in her thirty-four years that she and her father had ever had a meaningful conversation.
Enough introspection, especially this early in the morning.
She might as well get up. There wasn’t much chance she’d go back to sleep. She needed her morning cup of hot tea, something she looked forward to every day.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, Audrey headed for the kitchen. She filled the white enamel kettle with fresh water and placed it on the Jenn-Air range to heat. A hint of daylight peeked through the closed blinds of her Walnut Hill town house as she padded around on the Brazilian cherry hardwood floor, set out her favorite teacup on the granite countertop, and removed a bag of Earl Grey from the maple cupboard. If anything, Audrey was a creature of habit. She lived her life on a flexible schedule, appreciating the peace that the familiar gave her on a daily basis.
As a child, she had experienced enough drama to last her