considered.
Mud hadn’t been invented that was uglier until Alex had flung it at her fellow candidate. Surprisingly, Joe was the only candidate she had gone after with such venom. And now he was dead. Everyone suspected Alex had the cajones to do bodily harm and wondered why the police hadn’t arrested her. But then, Zach could just as easily have been the culprit, for all anyone knew. He had served in Vietnam, and more likely than not, killed people.
No one had to stretch their imaginations far when it came to Zach. The Reverend Zachariah Taylor had been under suspicion when women were being raped and murdered who attended his church. But he had been found innocent after a stint in the county jail. However, that menacing persona and his weird appearance often elicited suspicions.
But s omeone had killed Joe Schmidt. Investigators were seen around Cassadaga frequently, interviewing neighbors, asking questions. Nightingale, for one, was not pleased with the recent murders and the slow progress the investigations were taking, especially that of Bradford Perry.
Nightingale felt her life was on hold and, currently ruined until they found the culprit who killed her ex-husband. Her readings had dropped, at best, to one a day. Eyes followed her everywhere she walked within the community. Little minds were spinning inside their heads like a hamster in a cage, no doubt creating all sorts of possibilities. It was depressing to be alive.
While Nightingale may have questioned Brad’s tactics in business and his lack of understanding , she had never wished him dead. Not even once. Frequently, little pangs of sadness would come upon her over his passing, even though they had been divorced for some time.
It wasn’t Nightingale’s nature to hate anyone. She loved people and truly enjoyed her occupation of helping people . Brad’s killer couldn’t be found soon enough to suit Nightingale and clear her reputation.
Nightingale stepped outside her house, thinking she might relax if she went for a walk. It was then that she spied the black cat, gawking at her from the same post as before. Did that cat ever move? How could it be at the very same location?
Dismissing the cat from her thoughts, she began to walk around the quaint community. As she approached the bookstore, Nightingale suddenly felt a searing pain knife through her left eye and into her brain. She dropped to her knees , holding her head between both hands. Wondering if she was having a stroke, Nightingale tried to rise. If she could make it to the bookstore, Chloe would help.
Wobbling on shaky legs, Nightingale managed to stand up. She crept forward, slowly, inching along until her hand touched the front door. Barely able to turn the knob, she all but fell into the building from leaning on the door.
“Nightingale!” Chloe cried.
Running to her friend, she gathered Nightingale into her arms, trying to give her support. One of the customers came quickly over to assist Chloe in getting Nightingale into one of the reading chairs. Nightingale fell back against the chair, breathless.
“What’s wrong, sweetie? Tell me where you hurt?”
“My head,” Nightingale slurred out.
“I think she’s having a stroke,” the customer said. “Call an ambulance.”
Chloe ran for the phone while the customer got some water on a paper towel to apply to Nightingale’s face. The ambulance arrived in ten minutes, the EMTs scooping Nightingale up onto the gurney and wheeling her out to the vehicle. Off they went, leaving Chloe with her mouth gaping in horror.
Chloe called her backup employee, Heidi, begging her to come into work so she could go to the hospital. Heidi said she’d be there in fifteen minutes and hung up. Chloe’s eyes filled with emotion.
Eleven
Nightingale’s head rolled around like a ball , as if it wasn’t attached to her neck. She groaned in agony over the pain she felt and cried tears of remorse for anything she might have done to bring on this
Mud hadn’t been invented that was uglier until Alex had flung it at her fellow candidate. Surprisingly, Joe was the only candidate she had gone after with such venom. And now he was dead. Everyone suspected Alex had the cajones to do bodily harm and wondered why the police hadn’t arrested her. But then, Zach could just as easily have been the culprit, for all anyone knew. He had served in Vietnam, and more likely than not, killed people.
No one had to stretch their imaginations far when it came to Zach. The Reverend Zachariah Taylor had been under suspicion when women were being raped and murdered who attended his church. But he had been found innocent after a stint in the county jail. However, that menacing persona and his weird appearance often elicited suspicions.
But s omeone had killed Joe Schmidt. Investigators were seen around Cassadaga frequently, interviewing neighbors, asking questions. Nightingale, for one, was not pleased with the recent murders and the slow progress the investigations were taking, especially that of Bradford Perry.
Nightingale felt her life was on hold and, currently ruined until they found the culprit who killed her ex-husband. Her readings had dropped, at best, to one a day. Eyes followed her everywhere she walked within the community. Little minds were spinning inside their heads like a hamster in a cage, no doubt creating all sorts of possibilities. It was depressing to be alive.
While Nightingale may have questioned Brad’s tactics in business and his lack of understanding , she had never wished him dead. Not even once. Frequently, little pangs of sadness would come upon her over his passing, even though they had been divorced for some time.
It wasn’t Nightingale’s nature to hate anyone. She loved people and truly enjoyed her occupation of helping people . Brad’s killer couldn’t be found soon enough to suit Nightingale and clear her reputation.
Nightingale stepped outside her house, thinking she might relax if she went for a walk. It was then that she spied the black cat, gawking at her from the same post as before. Did that cat ever move? How could it be at the very same location?
Dismissing the cat from her thoughts, she began to walk around the quaint community. As she approached the bookstore, Nightingale suddenly felt a searing pain knife through her left eye and into her brain. She dropped to her knees , holding her head between both hands. Wondering if she was having a stroke, Nightingale tried to rise. If she could make it to the bookstore, Chloe would help.
Wobbling on shaky legs, Nightingale managed to stand up. She crept forward, slowly, inching along until her hand touched the front door. Barely able to turn the knob, she all but fell into the building from leaning on the door.
“Nightingale!” Chloe cried.
Running to her friend, she gathered Nightingale into her arms, trying to give her support. One of the customers came quickly over to assist Chloe in getting Nightingale into one of the reading chairs. Nightingale fell back against the chair, breathless.
“What’s wrong, sweetie? Tell me where you hurt?”
“My head,” Nightingale slurred out.
“I think she’s having a stroke,” the customer said. “Call an ambulance.”
Chloe ran for the phone while the customer got some water on a paper towel to apply to Nightingale’s face. The ambulance arrived in ten minutes, the EMTs scooping Nightingale up onto the gurney and wheeling her out to the vehicle. Off they went, leaving Chloe with her mouth gaping in horror.
Chloe called her backup employee, Heidi, begging her to come into work so she could go to the hospital. Heidi said she’d be there in fifteen minutes and hung up. Chloe’s eyes filled with emotion.
Eleven
Nightingale’s head rolled around like a ball , as if it wasn’t attached to her neck. She groaned in agony over the pain she felt and cried tears of remorse for anything she might have done to bring on this
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