Fatal Storm by Lee Driver Page A

when her mother had sent
her to a finishing school with other six-year-olds so they could
learn which fork to use and how to act like a young lady in public.
Sheila had even had a pair of white socks bordered with lace like
Colleen wore.
    “Seven,” Colleen replied. “How old are
you?”
    Sheila smiled. “Older than seven. Much
older.”
    “You're pretty.”
    “Thank you. So are you.” Sheila wasn’t sure
how much information she could get out of a seven-year-old, but
girls, as she well knew, could sometimes be very chatty. “How long
have I been here?”
    Colleen didn’t reply, just raised her
shoulders in an I don’t know gesture.
    So if the girl didn’t know, who would? “Do
you know how I got here?”
    The girl leaned close and whispered, “It was
the storm.”
    The storm? What did that
mean? Last night’s storm? “I don’t understand.” Why would that have anything to do with why I’m no
longer at the Sebold mansion? she thought. Somewhere
in the house a door slammed. Heavy footsteps could be heard coming
from upstairs.
    Colleen's eyes widened. “Hide. He's
coming.”
    “Who?” Sheila rose slowly and turned toward
the hallway, the footsteps growing closer. “Who is coming?” But
when she returned her gaze to the couch, Colleen was gone.
    Sheila considered running to the dining room
to see if there were any knives in the buffet. Whoever was coming
down the hall might have been the one who hit her over the head and
drove her to whatever town they were in. She wasn't even sure they
were in the same state any more. But it was too late.
    A figure stopped in the doorway and smiled.
“Glad to see you have awakened.”
    Sheila was speechless. She had to be dreaming
or she stumbled into a Shakespearean play. She might have been
attracted to the man in a turn of the century sort of way. His hair
was long and touched the collar of his white shirt. His suit coat
had tails, like something a groom would wear to a wedding. The face
was attractive enough, but the eyes exuded a danger bordering on
curiosity and threat.
    She straightened her back and glared at him.
“Who are you and how did I get here? I demand you take me home
immediately.”
    The man smiled slowly then threw back his
head and laughed. “Wouldn't that we all would like to go home.” He
bowed his head slightly and said, “I am Adrian Walker, madam. And
who might you be?”
    “Sheila Monroe. I am a reporter with
the Daily Herald .”
    “Ahhh. A newspaper. I have always wanted to
tell someone my life story.” He motioned to the couch. “Sit.
Please.”
    Sheila remained standing. “I want answers.
Where am I and how did I get here?”
    “And you will get your answers, in good
stead.”
    Who talks this way anymore? Sheila wondered.
As a matter of fact, who even dresses like that anymore?
    “Let's start with how I got here.” Sheila
slowly sat down, afraid any fast motions would set the room
spinning again. She moved back against the cushions and folded her
arms across her chest.
    “You literally fell into my lap.” He lowered
himself onto the couch and crossed his legs, taking time to
straighten the crease in his slacks. He moved with the elegance of
an aristocrat and even spoke with an accent she couldn't quite
detect. “Bumped your head when you fell.”
    Sheila touched her forehead and then the back
of her head which were still tender to the touch. “I could have a
concussion. I should have gone to the hospital and had X-rays.
Besides, I may have fallen, but I certainly didn't walk to whatever
town I'm in. I will ask again. Where am I?”
    “Dawson's Corner,” he replied simply as
though he should have added, “where else?”
    “Is that in Indiana?”
    “Of course. Now my turn.”
    “I wasn't aware we were playing a game.”
    When he smiled his eyes appeared even darker
and more mysterious. “I love games. It sometimes gets very boring
in this,” his eyes took on an edge of delight, “town.” He pulled an
object from his