You Don't Want To Know - By Lisa Jackson Page 0,59

moved.

Everything was still.

Aside from her wild, galumphing heart.

“Show yourself!”

Her throat was dry as she squinted through the two-by-fours of the unfinished wall and past the odd shapes of discarded furniture.

No one appeared.

No sound or smell indicated she wasn’t alone.

But she had the distinct feeling that someone was hiding in the shadows. Watching.

She strained to hear and thought, just briefly, that she heard the sound of music, an ancient Elvis hit, probably whispering through the dirty air ducts overhead.

She forced her breathing back to normal levels.

She hadn’t imagined the sound.

Something definitely had fallen.

And not on its own.

Still eyeing the shadowy room, she bent her knees and felt along the cracked floor for the key. When she didn’t immediately find it, she used the flashlight app on her cell to illuminate the area and found that the key had slipped beneath the vanity. She grabbed the tiny piece of metal and straightened, her face turned toward the dusty mirror.

An image moved in the reflection, a dark shadow that quickly darted across all three mirrors.

Whirling, her skin crawling, Ava forced her eyes in the direction of the movement, reversing it in her head as it would move opposite of what she’d seen. Toward the stairs. “Who are you?” she demanded, straining to hear footsteps.

Nothing.

Oh, God.

Maybe it was her imagination, her sick mind playing tricks on her. No. She’d seen something! She had!

Her throat dry with dread, she moved forward, shining the beam of her phone flashlight into all the hidden corners where someone could hide.

What if he’s got a weapon? A knife? Or a gun?

A cold fear settled in the pit of her stomach, and her entire body broke into a cold, damp sweat as she edged her way through the shadows and dust, following her flashlight’s tiny beam, ready to jump out of her skin if the light caught in someone, or something’s, eyes.

Dear God, she was really freaking herself out. She made her way toward the stairs but stopped when she saw Noah’s toys. The rocking horse was moving, back and forth.

Her heart pounded and she looked over her shoulder, half expecting someone to jump out at her.

Someone was in the basement.

“I know you’re here,” she warned. “What is this?”

But no one answered. All she heard over her own shallow breathing was the creak of the floor overhead.

There was nothing more she could do down here, and truth be told, she wasn’t in the mood to sit in the semidark trying to coax some sicko from his—or her—hiding spot.

“Fine. Sit down here if you want. But I’m locking the door!” Heart beating a frightened tattoo, she mounted the stairs, and only when she’d reached the top, did she take a breath.

She closed the door to the stairs and was about to make good on her promise to lock the door when she heard the distinctive whine of Jewel-Anne’s wheelchair. A second later, her cousin, earbuds in place, buzzed around the corner. Upon spying Ava, Jewel-Anne appeared surprised for just an instant, then smiled slyly and shook her head. “You were in the basement?” She pulled a face as she stared at Ava’s shoulders and hair, popping out one of her earbuds, the soft notes of Elvis’s “Suspicious Minds” sounding tinny and faint. “What for?” Jewel-Anne wrinkled her nose. “It’s nasty down there.”

Ava tried again to flick the cobwebs from her mussed hair. “How would you know?”

“What?” Jewel-Anne whispered, stricken for an instant. Wounded. Her fingers clenched over the wheel of her chair and she blinked hard against tears. “Low blow, Ava,” she said roughly.

Ava felt like a bit of a heel.

“We’re caught in a trap . . .” Elvis warbled almost inaudibly.

Then her cousin’s lips pursed self-righteously and she lifted her little chin defiantly. “You know, Ava, I haven’t always been in this chair. If you hadn’t insisted we go out boating that day, Kelvin would still be alive and I’d be able to walk!”

“You’ve got to stop laying the blame on me,” she shot back, sick of Jewel-Anne’s warped view. “The accident wasn’t my fault.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Jewel-Anne said before reversing her electric contraption and calling over her shoulder as she rolled out of sight, “Maybe someday you’ll convince yourself.”

Torn between fury and, yes, guilt, Ava sagged against the door frame. Intellectually she knew that Jewel-Anne was completely wrong, but sometimes it sure felt like someone was to blame. That emotion she totally understood.

CHAPTER 15

Dern hadn’t counted on Ava Garrison being as sharp as she was. From what he’d