Free Terrified by Kevin O'Brien Page A

photo, the resemblance to the long-assumed-dead Lisa Swann was uncanny.

C HAPTER S IX
    T he picture of Megan Keeslar holding onto her three-year-old son as he sat atop the playground slide could have been on display in a professional photographer’s studio. The happy expressions on both their faces were just perfect. The pink blossoms of a rhododendron bush behind them made the composition even more beautiful. Megan Keeslar didn’t even know the picture existed. She had no idea someone had recorded that moment with Josh in the kiddy park. That certain someone had taken the shot from a car across the street, using a camera with a high-powered telephoto lens.
    He sat at his large, antique mahogany desk in front of the living room’s bay windows. Listening to some Bach from his CD collection, he sipped his merlot and studied the picture. He’d developed the photo himself—in the spacious closet under the stairs of his farmhouse. He’d converted the closet into a darkroom—one of the first changes he’d made after moving into the place.
    He’d taken scores of other photographs of Megan and Josh Keeslar, and many of them now littered his desk: photos from back when she’d been pregnant and had rarely stepped outside that tiny apartment by the Monorail; shots of her with baby Josh strapped to her back, or her pushing him in a stroller; and pictures of Megan walking alone downtown. As far as he could tell, Megan had never been aware that someone was watching her and capturing all those moments.
    He thought of how in some cultures, people objected to having their pictures taken, because they believed it stole a bit of their souls. If that was truly the case, Megan Keeslar had no idea he’d already stolen a huge chunk of her soul.
    And he was just getting started on her.
    His favorite picture was this one on the playground slide with Josh. If Megan had known about the photo, she’d probably have had it framed. He could see it on her bookshelf in the living room, where she kept that blue crystal vase and her meager video collection—mostly classics, with an emphasis on the Hepburns, Kate and Audrey. Or maybe she would have had the picture on top of her bedroom dresser, instead of the one of Josh on his first birthday. It was kind of a pitiful picture really—the baby in a high chair with a befuddled gaze at a cake and its solitary candle, no other celebrant in the shot. Obviously, there was no one else present besides his mother.
    The last time the man had been in her bedroom, he’d stolen a pair of champagne-color panties from the top drawer of that dresser. He wondered if Megan missed them. Probably no more than she’d missed the handkerchief, the tube of lipstick ( Scarlet Dusk ) and the black bra he’d pinched during his many undetected break-ins over the last eighteen months.
    The Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 ended. He took a sip of his merlot, and then got up to change the CD.
    But he heard a noise—and froze. He looked out toward the darkness on the other side of the bay windows, but he could only see his own stupefied reflection. He heard it again—a faint thumping sound. He hurried toward the front door and switched on the outside floodlights. They illuminated the front and sides of the house.
    He’d planned on installing surveillance cameras outside the barn and along the quarter-mile-long driveway leading to the house. He had also thought about setting up some kind of alarm system so he’d know if someone was on the premises. But he hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
    He heard it again, that same thumping sound.
    He gazed out the front window—and then out the bay windows again. He didn’t see anything, not even a raccoon loitering about. He hurried to the kitchen—with its peeling faded green plaid wallpaper and old Harvest Gold appliances. He glanced out the window in the back door, but didn’t see anything except the old, broken swing set and some rusted lawn furniture that had been there when he