Free The Drowning Girls by Paula Treick Deboard Page A

tiny white thing that was a waste of money, no matter what she’d spent.
    Phil charged through the kitchen to the garage.
    “What’s going on?” Danielle demanded.
    The garage door slammed and Phil was back, flicking a flashlight on-off, on-off to test the battery.
    “We heard a noise,” I told them. “Just stay put. We’ll check it out.”
    But Danielle had started down the steps, Kelsey trailing her in a skimpy baby-doll dress. “I’m coming, too,” Danielle said. “I want to go with you.”
    “Right? That’s always how it is in horror movies. The killer comes upstairs, and there’s nowhere left to go at that point,” Kelsey put in.
    “I’m sure there’s no—”
    “Absolutely not,” Phil snapped. “You’re staying here. And put some clothes on, both of you.”
    Danielle looked down at her legs, as if she were seeing them for the first time. Kelsey only smiled.
    “Stay,” I ordered, as if they were disobedient pets. I followed Phil as he barreled down the front walkway, the beam of his flashlight bringing into stark relief the rounded humps of our landscaping rocks. I saw a dark figure standing in the middle of the road, and he spotted me, moving into the yellow glow of an overhead carriage light. He was tall, gray hair cropped close to his head, a button-down shirt tucked firmly into his waistband.
    “Everything all right at your house?” he called.
    “We’re fine. I guess you heard that, too?”
    “Sounded like a scream.” He extended a hand. “I’m Doug Blevins.”
    “Liz—Liz McGinnis. That’s my husband, Phil,” I gestured to Phil’s retreating form, a dark shadow preceded by the beam of his flashlight. “I’ve met your wife and son a few times.”
    “That’s what I hear. Fran said it was nice to have another normal person around.”
    I laughed. “I feel the same way.”
    Again, the scream came. It was louder this time, and definitely female. I whirled around, trying to get a sense of its origin.
    “That’s it,” Doug said, digging in his pocket. “Woman screaming? I’m calling the police.”
    Phil was coming back from the clubhouse, his flashlight zigzagging toward us.
    Doug took a step away, speaking into his phone. “Yes, I’m calling from The Palms. Alameda County, outside Livermore.”
    “It’s not coming from the clubhouse,” Phil panted. “Everything’s shut up for the night.” He frowned at Doug Blevins, overhearing part of his conversation.
    The scream became a breathy wail, carried by someone coming off the trail at a sprint. Footsteps pounded closer, and Phil stepped in front of me. “Who’s out there?” he called.
    The running figure became first a woman, then Deanna Sievert in a fitted running tank and shorts, hair escaping her ponytail. Seeing us, she cried out again, more sob than scream this time.
    “Deanna? What happened?” I called.
    She stopped short in front of us, nearly collapsing. Phil caught her by the arm. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
    Her breath came in ragged gasps, and when she straightened up, her face was blotchy with tears. “There was—something—” she wheezed. “On the golf course. These two glowing eyes—”
    “You saw someone out there?” I asked.
    “No, some thing . At first—I thought it was someone’s dog. But the way it moved—it was feline , just massive—” She doubled over again, hands on her knees. Phil still had her by the arm, as if he were propping her up. “It disappeared when I screamed, and then I ran like hell.”
    Doug joined us, phone in hand. “Police are sending out a patrol. I’m supposed to call back to update them. What did you see, exactly?”
    Deanna repeated her story, only this time the predator seemed larger, stronger, faster, like the great fish that got away. She seemed less scared now, enjoying her position as the center of attention. I focused on Phil’s thumb, which was rotating in a circle on Deanna’s twenty-four-year-old shoulder.
    Doug nodded knowingly. “Sounds