Never Look Back. Robert Ross

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СКАЧАТЬ to the library, I suspect,” Mrs. Winn replied, getting up to stand opposite Karen. “That’s pretty much the only place she goes. Well, that and the bookstores. Her research on this”—she gestured to the smudged computer printouts—“leaves a lot to be desired.”

      Mrs. Winn was a short woman, barely five feet tall in her stocking feet, and her hair was iron gray. Her brown eyes were perceptive and intelligent. Karen had liked her almost from the minute she’d arrived yesterday.

      “Been up in the attic?” Mrs. Winn smiled, reaching over to pluck a cobweb out of Karen’s hair.

      Karen sank into a chair at the table and nodded. “I swear, I don’t know where all this junk came from. If you’d seen my old apartment back home—”

      “Ah, whenever I move, I think the same thing.” Mrs. Winn moved over to the stove. “Would you like a nice cup of tea? I was just thinking I’d like one.”

      What I really need is a shot of tequila, Karen thought, but aloud said, “That’d be nice.”

      Mrs. Winn put the kettle on to boil, taking down two cups and some packets of tea. Sitting back down at the table across from Karen, she gave her a sympathetic look. “Are you settling in okay?” Her voice was so kind. She reminded Karen of her freshmen English teacher from high school.

      Karen shrugged. “It’s a lot to handle.”

      “Change is hard for everyone.” The teakettle whistled and Mrs. Winn was up again, pouring the boiling water into the teacups. “And this house is hardly the best place.” She shivered. “So much tragedy.”

      “Tragedy?” Karen stirred her tea.

      “My dear, you don’t know?” Mrs. Winn hesitated. “Oh, maybe it’s not my place—”

      Mrs. Winn was a godsend after Jessie’s mother died. Karen heard Philip’s voice in her head. I don’t know what we would have done without her.

      “Please, Mrs. Winn.”

      “Call me Alice.” Mrs. Winn sipped her tea. “You know this is the old Hatch house, don’t you?”

      Karen shrugged. “Hatch house? What does that mean?”

      “Oh dear. Mr. Kaye must have told you. It was why he bought the house! Because of the associations. Because of the legends. You know, with him being a horror writer and all…”

      “Mrs. Winn, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

      She seemed flabbergasted. “My dear Karen. Have you never heard of Lettie Hatch?”

      An old child’s rhyme floated suddenly through Karen’s head:

      Lettie Hatch took a butcher knife, and with it took her father’s life. To put an end to all her strife, she used it then on her father’s wife.

      She shivered. “I—I always thought that was just a nursery rhyme.”

      “Well, Lizzie Borden was more famous, but Lettie Hatch was very real, our very own local version.” Mrs. Winn sighed. “And this was the house—where it all happened. It stood empty for years until Mr. Kaye bought it.” She shook her head. “Hardly the atmosphere to raise a child, you know?”

      A cold chill went down Karen’s spine.

      “I’m surprised Mr. Kaye never told you.”

      “So am I….”

      “And Jessie’s so sensitive.” Mrs. Winn reached across the table and took Karen’s hand. “It’s important that you and I get along—for her sake. I’m worried.”

      Karen held the older woman’s gaze. “Tell me about her. Philip hasn’t said much about Jessie, except that she’s homeschooled, and—” What were his exact words? She couldn’t remember; she hadn’t really paid much attention. But he had told her something else about Jessie. What was it? All she’d been thinking about was becoming Mrs. Philip Kaye. Karen shrugged. “I know he dotes on her. That much is obvious.”

      More perhaps than he dotes on me, Karen thought, immediately regretting it. Still, she couldn’t help but feel that just two weeks after getting married she shouldn’t be here all alone, her husband off on yet another book tour—with how many other pretty young female fans in low-cut blouses approaching him at his readings?

      But he married me. I am Mrs. Philip Kaye.

      She focused again on Mrs. Winn and talk of Jessie.

      “She trusts me, I think,” Mrs. Winn was saying. “But she doesn’t talk to me—I don’t know that she talks to anyone. We talk about her schoolwork, but that’s about it.” She sighed. “After the first Mrs. Kaye’s, um, unfortunate accident, Mr. Kaye took Jessie to some therapists in Boston, but she wouldn’t talk to them either, so he finally gave up on that.”

      “How did her mother die?” Philip had been vague about his first wife; whenever Karen had brought the subject up, he’d responded with an abrupt It’s too painful to talk about, I’m sorry, Karen.

      Mrs. Winn’s jaw dropped. “You don’t know?”

      Karen shook her head.

      “Well, I’m sorry to be the bearer of so many unpleasant secrets….”

      It began to dawn on Karen just how short a time she had known her husband before she married him. It’s what made her parents so anxious about the marriage. There was so much she didn’t know about him and his life—and had been too in awe of him to push for answers. I’m his wife, Karen told herself. Not some starstruck fan. Not anymore. I have a right to know these things.

      “Tell me, Mrs. Winn. Please.”

      The older woman looked uncomfortable, then seemed to make a decision. “For Jessie’s sake, you should know.” She took a breath. “The first Mrs. Winn hanged herself. Jessie was alone in the house with her. Jessie was the one who found her.”

      Chapter 2

      There she is again, Chris Muir thought.

      He was sitting on a bench on Commercial Street, bored out of his mind, drinking a protein smoothie. He’d already been to the gym that morning, lifting weights and riding the bike. His red T-shirt was stuck to his back with sweat, and his curly dark hair was damp from the exertion.

      He watched as the girl in black hurried along the sidewalk, sidestepping dawdling pedestrians. Her long dark hair hung, uncombed, in tangles and knots past her shoulders. She had a heavy canvas bag thrown over her right shoulder, her eyes cast down on the redbrick sidewalk. Her skin was pale with dark circles under her large brown eyes, and her face was free of makeup. She was wearing a plain black T-shirt over black jeans and heavy black combat boots that weren’t tied, the laces flapping as she walked.

      Don’t be shy, dumb-ass, say something to her.

      He sat up straighter, pulling his stomach in a bit. He slid his headphones, blaring the latest Kenny Chesney CD, down from his ears. This time he was going to talk to her. What’s the worst thing she can say? It’s not like she can СКАЧАТЬ