alternate realities. Rooms in the mind opened to more rooms, which opened to yet more rooms, and in each one resided endless possibilities for the imagination. The woman felt it was best to stay out of those rooms as much as possible, and the books allowed her some different rooms to explore.
There were no windows in their cell, leading the woman to believe they were either in an interior room of some thick-walled building or possibly in a subterranean bunker of some sort. Maybe a military installation.
On the rare occasions when she wasn’t reading and she did let her mind drift in and out of those dangerous rooms, she thoughtabout the days before any of this happened, before the cursed room, before the men who came every morning to take away her daughter, before she’d lost everything and become nothing more than a caged animal, the mother of a lab rat.
And when she wasn’t reading or remembering, she kept her mind busy and focused by praying. Sometimes, admittedly, she had to force herself to pray. Her faith was not as strong as her daughter’s. It faltered; it failed. She questioned and sometimes cursed. But when she saw her daughter, her faith was renewed. The girl had that effect on her and used to on everyone she came in contact with. It was a gift, no doubt about it. She was special. So special.
And that’s the reason they were here.
Peter pulled his Jetta into the driveway and shut off the engine. He’d tucked the intruders’ gray SUV into his own garage after backing out the Jetta. He didn’t need snooping neighbors prematurely stirring up trouble when they noticed the SUV hadn’t moved in a while. Anything out of place or out of the ordinary made them nosy. And nosy neighbors eventually surrendered to their curiosity and knocked on doors and peered into windows. And if there was no answer or if the home looked like it had been disturbed, nosy neighbors would sometimes take it upon themselves to locate the hidden key to the back door and let themselves in. All out of neighborly concern, of course. And when nosy neighbors found three dead bodies lying on the stairs and in the upstairs hallway, they called the police.
So because Peter didn’t want to add to any nosy neighbors’ curiosity, he left the house as naturally as he could. Just another day of heading off to a boring day at the lab. Nothing to look at here, folks.
Amy Cantori, assistant professor of psychology, lived alone in a two-story brick Victorian on the edge of Candleburg’s historic district. At twenty-five hundred square feet, the house was way more than she needed, but she managed to keep up with it.
A large maple with sprawling limbs that forked into more sprawling limbs shaded the front of the house. Meticulously clipped knee-high boxwoods lined the sidewalk, and twisted wisteria shoots, like the many entangled tentacles of a graceless octopus, framed the wide front porch. The lawn was freshly cut and edged with razor precision. She’d had the porch painted since the last time Peter saw it. The framing was now a light cucumber green.
Peter exited his car and stepped up onto the porch. It was nicely furnished with wicker chairs and a love seat, potted cannas and ferns. Stained natural-wood flooring had replaced the old worn boards. It looked to be a nice place to sit on a summer evening and enjoy a gentle breeze and iced tea.
The front door opened, and Amy folded her arms across her chest. “So this isn’t a friendly visit to make amends.”
Peter stopped. “I know we need to deal with that, and we can. Later. Can I come in?”
She stepped to the side. “Only if you tell me what this is really about.”
Walking past her and into the house, Peter said, “There’s not much I can tell.”
She closed the door. “Still as elusive as ever, I see. You said it was about Karen and Lilly. I’m sorry, Peter; really I am. And I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral. It just didn’t feel right after —”
“I’m not
There were no windows in their cell, leading the woman to believe they were either in an interior room of some thick-walled building or possibly in a subterranean bunker of some sort. Maybe a military installation.
On the rare occasions when she wasn’t reading and she did let her mind drift in and out of those dangerous rooms, she thoughtabout the days before any of this happened, before the cursed room, before the men who came every morning to take away her daughter, before she’d lost everything and become nothing more than a caged animal, the mother of a lab rat.
And when she wasn’t reading or remembering, she kept her mind busy and focused by praying. Sometimes, admittedly, she had to force herself to pray. Her faith was not as strong as her daughter’s. It faltered; it failed. She questioned and sometimes cursed. But when she saw her daughter, her faith was renewed. The girl had that effect on her and used to on everyone she came in contact with. It was a gift, no doubt about it. She was special. So special.
And that’s the reason they were here.
Peter pulled his Jetta into the driveway and shut off the engine. He’d tucked the intruders’ gray SUV into his own garage after backing out the Jetta. He didn’t need snooping neighbors prematurely stirring up trouble when they noticed the SUV hadn’t moved in a while. Anything out of place or out of the ordinary made them nosy. And nosy neighbors eventually surrendered to their curiosity and knocked on doors and peered into windows. And if there was no answer or if the home looked like it had been disturbed, nosy neighbors would sometimes take it upon themselves to locate the hidden key to the back door and let themselves in. All out of neighborly concern, of course. And when nosy neighbors found three dead bodies lying on the stairs and in the upstairs hallway, they called the police.
So because Peter didn’t want to add to any nosy neighbors’ curiosity, he left the house as naturally as he could. Just another day of heading off to a boring day at the lab. Nothing to look at here, folks.
Amy Cantori, assistant professor of psychology, lived alone in a two-story brick Victorian on the edge of Candleburg’s historic district. At twenty-five hundred square feet, the house was way more than she needed, but she managed to keep up with it.
A large maple with sprawling limbs that forked into more sprawling limbs shaded the front of the house. Meticulously clipped knee-high boxwoods lined the sidewalk, and twisted wisteria shoots, like the many entangled tentacles of a graceless octopus, framed the wide front porch. The lawn was freshly cut and edged with razor precision. She’d had the porch painted since the last time Peter saw it. The framing was now a light cucumber green.
Peter exited his car and stepped up onto the porch. It was nicely furnished with wicker chairs and a love seat, potted cannas and ferns. Stained natural-wood flooring had replaced the old worn boards. It looked to be a nice place to sit on a summer evening and enjoy a gentle breeze and iced tea.
The front door opened, and Amy folded her arms across her chest. “So this isn’t a friendly visit to make amends.”
Peter stopped. “I know we need to deal with that, and we can. Later. Can I come in?”
She stepped to the side. “Only if you tell me what this is really about.”
Walking past her and into the house, Peter said, “There’s not much I can tell.”
She closed the door. “Still as elusive as ever, I see. You said it was about Karen and Lilly. I’m sorry, Peter; really I am. And I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral. It just didn’t feel right after —”
“I’m not
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