Free Dark Terrors 3 by David Sutton Stephen Jones Page B

that it could be dangerous to confront whoever it might be, but she couldn’t stop herself.
     
    Breathless, she rang the doorbell. Nobody came to answer it, but she felt the presence of someone pausing inside, looking up from what they were doing, waiting. She rang again. Nothing. She thought of the keys hanging up in her kitchen that had come from Emma’s handbag. Should she fetch them? Should she go back and call the police? She took a step backwards, hesitating.
     
    The front door to Wren’s Nest opened. A tall, pale girl stood there, long blonde hair falling over her face. She wore a dark coat, hanging open. She and Cynthia stared at each other for a moment. Cynthia was unsure of what to say. ‘I’m Emma’s neighbour,’ she said at last, gesturing back towards her house.
     
    The girl frowned. ‘Where are her things?’ she demanded. ‘What have you done with Emma’s things?’
     
    Cynthia felt small. ‘Well, her parents came . . .’ she began lamely.
     
    ‘They had no right!’
     
    ‘Well, no one else came!’ Cynthia said indignantly. ‘It’s been so long! Was there something of yours Emma had?’ She was wondering whether she ought to invite this strange person over for coffee, a natural instinct for hospitality. ‘You missed the funeral? I’m sorry. A friend of Emma’s were you?’
     
    The girl smiled grimly. ‘There’s nothing left here,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be so late. I thought I’d be in time.’
     
    ‘Well . . .’ Cynthia shrugged awkwardly. ‘Would you like a hot drink? It must be cold in there and . . . the . . . electricity’s. . . turned . . . off.’ She tried to peer past the girl to see if the lights were on. Perhaps a candle?
     
    The girl considered for a moment, then said, ‘Yes please, I would like a drink. I’m Felicia Browning.’
     
    The name seemed familiar to Cynthia. Where had she heard it before?
     
    * * * *
     
    The girl looked out of place in Cynthia’s kitchen, too large somehow, too awkward, yet she was graceful and slim. As Cynthia plugged in the kettle, Felicia Browning said, ‘Can you help me get Emma’s things?’
     
    Cynthia dared not look at her, fiddling with the on/off switch needlessly. Never a person to lie, she now had the strongest reluctance to confess she’d virtually stolen some of the paintings and the little book. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s impossible. You see, Emma’s parents took her effects to the dump.’ It sounded sordid now, a foul and spiteful act.
     
    ‘The stupid bastards!’ Felicia Browning exclaimed vehemently. ‘That was years of work! Years of it!’
     
    ‘I’m sorry. I’m inclined to agree with you,’ Cynthia said, ‘But unfortunately Mrs Tizard was adamant. She found some things that quite upset her, you see.’
     
    The girl nodded. ‘Yes, Em was careless. She should have cleared things away. She should have told me earlier. Now, it’s all gone!’
     
    ‘What do you mean exactly? Was Emma planning on leaving anyway?’
     
    Felicia looked at Cynthia with an unattractive furtiveness, then shrugged. ‘She was making preparations but the timing didn’t quite work out.’
     
    ‘It certainly didn’t!’ Cynthia said cynically. She poured hot water into the coffee mugs. ‘Have you known Emma long?’
     
    ‘I suppose so. We used to live together in London.’
     
    Cynthia looked up sharply. Of course, the name! She must have read it in the papers, or had the police mentioned it? Emma’s erstwhile, disappearing flatmate.
     
    Felicia took her mug and sipped, speaking to Cynthia over the rim, confirming her hostess’s suspicions without further prompting. ‘I can see you’ve heard about me. I’ve been away for a while.’
     
    ‘Away!’
     
    ‘Don’t worry about it!’ Felicia said, laughing.
     
    Cynthia felt herself flush. ‘It’s just that . . . people had assumed . . .’ She gestured helplessly with one hand.
     
    Felicia narrowed her eyes, ignoring Cynthia’s lame