Chapter 8
Chapter eight
The next morning, I dropped off Henry with June for the day, but instead of heading straight to the bookstore, I took the elevator back up to the third floor and went to Billy Wayne and Kitty’s apartment.
The woman who responded to my knock opened the door only a crack, just enough to reveal one pale blue eye. But even with that glimpse of her, Kitty seemed small. Frail. Frightened.
“Good morning,” I said softly, in case Billy Wayne was still inside. “I’m Zellie Dupont. I just moved in and thought I’d come introduce myself.”
She stared at me like she was waiting for me to say more, then gave a tight nod. “Mornin’.”
When she didn’t shut the door in my face, I cleared my throat, checking the hallway before lowering my voice. “Kitty, I heard you crying. Are you okay? Do you need help?”
Kitty’s eye widened. She opened the door just a little bit more—just enough to see her face, drawn and hollow, cheeks sunken, the skin beneath her eyes dark with lack of sleep or crying…or illness.
“Please don’t say things like that,” she whispered urgently. “You don’t understand.”
“Kitty,” I said gently, “if you need help there are places you can go, people who can get you on your feet, and Billy Wayne won’t be able to hurt you again.”
She shook her head vehemently. “It’s not like that. Please, just don’t concern yourself with my affairs. Please. It’s better for you if you just leave it alone.”
Before I could say anything more, she closed the door.
Taking the hint, I left Dawes House and walked toward the bookstore, trying not to think about my neighbor who was so clearly scared of…something. But the image of her gauntness troubled me for days. Weeks, even. Haunted me so much that Dottie pulled me aside at the end of my shift one evening.
“What’s eating at you, Zellie?” she asked, blinking at me through cat-eye glasses that made her eyes look cartoonishly large.
I considered how much to share before asking, “Dottie, if you knew someone was in trouble, would you help them—even if they didn’t want you to?”
She nodded sagely. “A vexing dilemma. Dreadful. What does your intuition tell you? You must listen to what you know on a deeper level, honey. Don’t trust your head or your heart.
That’s just for motivational posters.” She tottered away from me to help a customer, calling over her shoulder, “Toodle-oo now, honey.”
I stared after her, bewildered by her quirky yet somehow sage wisdom, before shaking my head and closing the café.
But before I left for home, I dialed a number on my phone.
My intuition was screaming that something was dreadfully wrong with Kitty Wright.
And I’d be damned if I was going to just stand by and watch her slip through the cracks.
I didn’t see the police car until I was only a couple of houses away from Dawes House.
Several neighbors had come out onto their porches to see what was going on, concerned expressions doing little to mask their morbid curiosity.
A woman holding a snow-white bichon in her arms offered me a sympathetic smile as if to reassure me that she wasn’t being nosey—she was merely curious.
I heard voices before I stepped inside, but nothing prepared me for what I saw in the foyer. A sturdy, muscled man stood with his arm around Kitty who was smiling as they chatted with a policeman. Kitty laughed at something the man said and patted her very round, very pregnant belly.
They were a picture of domestic bliss.
Kitty’s smile faltered when she saw me. She shot me a brief glare, her eyes narrowed, before turning back to the officer.
“I’m so sorry you had to come out this way because of some silly anonymous call, Officer.
The caller must not have known what she was talking about.
I’m perfectly fine, as you can see! Just tired.
This little fella has been kicking me something fierce. ”
The officer chuckled and tucked his palm-sized notebook into his shirt pocket. “No worries, ma’am. I’m sure they had good intentions. Had to come check it out. You understand.”
“Of course!” Kitty assured him. “I have been so emotional—nerves, I guess. So it’s possible someone heard me crying and just misunderstood.”
“My wife was the same way when we were expecting our first,” the officer commiserated. “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Wright. I’m sure everything will be fine.”
I watched the performance from beside Iris’s desk, trying to keep my mouth from falling open in disbelief.
They were faking it—whatever it was. What Kitty was going through wasn’t just a case of jittery nerves.
It was fear wearing a phony smile. And Kitty’s fury when she glanced at me again confirmed it. And complicated it.
The man—who I now realized was Billy Wayne—extended his hand to the officer. “Thank you, sir. Glad you cared enough to look in on my beautiful wife.”
As the officer passed me, he nodded in polite greeting. The second the door shut behind him, Kitty pegged me with another venomous glare, Billy Wayne adding one of his own.
Only then did I realize several other residents of Dawes House had gathered in the foyer during the Wrights’ exchange with law enforcement. Each of them gave me a disapproving look before slipping wordlessly back into their apartments.
They knew it was me who’d called in the anonymous tip. I didn’t know how. But they knew.
“Don’t worry.”
I jumped at the sudden voice behind me. Merilee sat on the edge of the front desk, legs elegantly crossed. She unfolded them and approached with slow, deliberate grace, then placed her hands on my shoulders.
“They’ll come around,” she said, her tone sympathetic. “We’re all a family at Dawes House. And we want you to be part of that family. But there are certain rules you just can’t break, Zellie-girl.”
She gave me a pointed look as she drifted away toward the hallway that led to the elevators. I stared after her, wondering what in the hell that was supposed to mean and why it sounded like a warning. Or a threat.
I stood in the center of the foyer, alone, for a few more baffled minutes, not understanding what had transpired.
“Run!”
The faint voice whispered, harsh, urgent near my ear, a warning so sudden I flinched and snapped my head around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the speaker.
A burst of icy breath—now in the other ear.
I whipped around in that direction. But the foyer was empty. The shadows stretched long and menacing across the floorboards as the sun slowly sank to the west, the sunlight that had been so vibrant now growing muddy and bland.
Around me, the air grew heavy, thick. It pressed in on me, weighing down my limbs, making it difficult to move, impossible to breathe.
I clutched my chest, my lungs burning, fighting for air.
Panic dug its claws into my skin, slashing, shredding, pulling me apart bit by bit.
I tried to scream, plead for help, but no sound came.
I stumbled forward, arm outstretched, grasping desperately for anything, anyone—
“Zellie!”
The pressure and panic instantly lifted. I gasped, air slamming into my lungs so hard my body arched backward, and I would’ve fallen had someone not caught me. Strong arms pulled me close for one steadying moment before guiding me to the game room and easing me into one of the plush velvet chairs.
“Slowly, slowly…”
I closed my eyes, forcing a long inhale, then another, releasing each breath slowly until the room stopped spinning. When I opened my eyes, Whit was kneeling in front of me, holding my hand, his thumb stroking lightly over my skin. His brows were drawn tight with worry.
And then a flash of something else, warm, electric, shot through me. My breath hitched. Embarrassment burned my cheeks.
“Oh, my God,” I muttered, yanking my hand away and trying to stand, only for Whit to gently guide me back down.
“Give it a few minutes,” he insisted. “Just breathe. Make sure you’re steady.”
I nodded, still anything but steady but not wanting to sit there feeling like an idiot any longer than I had to. “I’m good,” I lied, forcing a smile. “I need to go pick up Henry. June will be wondering where I am.”
Whit shrugged. “June can wait. You want to tell me what happened?”
I hesitated, debating, but then shook my head. “It was nothing. Just a panic attack. I’m fine.”
He gave me a disbelieving look but didn’t press. Instead, he went to the alcohol cabinet and poured a finger of what appeared to be brandy and handed it to me. “For your nerves.”
I didn’t typically touch hard liquor, but when I took a sip, the warmth of the amber liquid as it slid down my throat had a surprisingly comforting effect. I took another sip before handing him the glass.
“Thank you,” I murmured, mortified all over again.
Only then did I notice he was wearing a slate-gray suit—not the casual clothes I’d grown used to seeing him in during his increasingly frequent visits to Dawes House when we’d walk the garden paths or sit on what had become our favorite bench while watching Henry and Addie play.
He must’ve come straight from the office or some important meeting.
And here I was fainting like some melodramatic Victorian heroine who’d had a “great shock” over—what?
Calling in an anonymous tip about one of my neighbors and pissing off half the building?
Being terrified of disappointing people who’d started to feel like family?
Or, I don’t know, maybe it was the phantom voice that had whispered run in my ear.
Pathetic, I thought bitterly. Was I really that needy? That easily scared?
Irritated with myself, I stood abruptly, but my head swam again. I reached out blindly for something to steady myself.
Whit’s hand found mine immediately. “I’ve heard of someone being a lightweight, but…”
I opened my mouth to protest his assumption, but when I caught his gaze, I saw a sparkle of humor there. “You’re teasing me.”