To Love and to Perish - By Lisa Bork Page 0,76
car in the daylight. Maybe Cory could stop in again the next morning if he liked what he saw at night.
My stomach growled. I glanced at the clock. Was eleven forty-five too early to think about lunch? The little donuts we ate each morning tasted delicious but they didn’t last long in the tummy.
I wondered if Brennan was waiting anxiously for the hospice worker to arrive. If she stopped for lunch, she’d be that much later. Was Brennan as curious as me to learn what she was bringing? It was awfully nice of her to drive the five hours from Albany to drop it off. Cory and I drove there twice in the last week. Now we never wanted to make the drive again.
My heels tapped the showroom floor as I headed into the garage.
I got halfway there when I stopped. It was almost five and a half hours from Wachobe to Albany, taking the most direct route the GPS provided. Yet the hospice worker who called Brennan said she would be here in less than three.
I raced into the garage, grabbed Cory by the ankles, and yanked him out from under the car.
He appeared, flat on his back, wrench in hand, a stunned expression on his face. “Jo, are you crazy?”
“You said the hospice was in Albany, right?”
His brow furrowed. “Yes. So?”
“According to Brennan, the hospice worker left there at nine a.m., right?”
“Yes.”
“She’s supposed to be here by noon, right?”
“Yes.” The light dawned in his eyes. “She can’t get here that fast, not driving anyway.”
He jumped to his feet. “Where’s she coming from, Jo?”
“Binghamton is doable in less than three hours.”
“We should have known a hospice worker wouldn’t drive all the way here. Who do you think it is?”
“I think it’s Beth Smith. She must know about the money. No wonder she’s in a hurry to elope with Matthew. She must know he’s Brennan’s son and she must know about the will.”
Cory stripped the gloves from his hands and picked up the phone. “Let me call Brennan.”
I watched his face as he waited for Brennan to pick up. And the fear that washed across it when he didn’t.
“Try his cell.”
Cory punched in the number and waited. “Still no answer.”
“I don’t like it, Cory. Let’s go over there. The worst thing that can happen is Brennan will laugh at us.”
We rushed out the side door from the garage to the parking lot, leaving the building unlocked in our haste.
A gust of wind hit me in the face. The day had turned cold, the skies overcast. I climbed into the passenger seat of Cory’s BMW and struggled against the wind to close the door. As soon as I got it shut, he hit the gas, jolting us backward into the lot. He threw the car in drive and took off.
He pulled out of the parking lot onto Main Street, tires squealing, nearly colliding with a laundry service truck trying to parallel park. Too late I remembered how Cory’s driving deteriorated under duress.
I grabbed the seat belt and pulled it tight over my chest, clicking it in place. Then I braced myself against the dashboard as Cory blew through a red light. Thankfully it was a T intersection and the traffic was coming from the other side. They had time to stop, horns blowing, as Cory’s BMW brushed in front of them.
I wished I’d thought to bring my cell phone with me so I could call Ray to meet us. Of course, with the way Cory was driving, someone was bound to report us to the authorities anyway.
He hung a hard right onto the county lake road where Brennan built his cottage. A semi blew past us from the oncoming lane, no doubt on its way around Wachobe. Cory’s BMW rocked in its wake and I feared we might turn over.
We didn’t.
Cory hit the gas. We fishtailed. I clung to the door handle as he powered through it.
Swaying bushes, bent trees, vacant cottages, and glimpses of white caps on the lake flew past my window as I tried to hold onto my stomach contents. Thank god I’d only eaten one of those tiny donuts.
Cory accelerated. I glanced at the speedometer. He was going eighty and driving up the middle of the road instead of staying in his lane. We might not get a chance to look like fools in front of Brennan if we came face to face with another semi at this speed.
Three miles passed in a minute. He slammed on