Free The Strangers by Jacqueline West

doesn’t matter,” Olive croaked. The lump in her throat seemed to grow larger each time she swallowed, and it hurt to squeeze the words out. “We already know who took my parents. And we know it’s my fault.”
    For once, Rutherford said nothing. For the space of several seconds, there were only the sounds of Olive sniffling into Mrs. Dewey’s soggy shoulder, and the bare trees tapping against the walls outside, stirred by gusts of autumn wind.
    The quiet was smashed by a sudden knock at the front door. Rutherford hurried to open it. With a burst of chilly air, Doctor Widdecombe, Delora, and Walter blew through the doorway of the old stone house.
    Doctor Widdecombe planted himself in the middle of the entryway, letting the others squeeze in behind him. “Oh my,” he said. “Oh my, my, my.” From her damp spot on Mrs. Dewey’s shoulder, Olive watched his eyes take in the long, dim hallway, the library’s carved double doors, the scratched wooden paneling, and the glimmering paintings on each wall. “Oh my, my,
my,
” he breathed.
    Delora swayed behind him, wrapped up in a huge black shawl like a cross between a mummy and a vampire. “Yes,” she whispered, closing her silvery eyes. “There is danger here. Powerful, deep-rooted darkness.” Her eyelids fluttered open. “You poor child,” she murmured, reaching out to stroke Olive’s hair.
    Olive leaned closer to Mrs. Dewey.
    Walter towered behind his aunt and uncle. His mussed-up hair had been slicked tight to his skull, making his smallish head look like a pea on a pedestal. “What should we do?” he asked, pushing the sleeves of his sweater up his spindly arms. The sleeves slipped back down again. “Call the police?”
    “Certainly
not,
” said Doctor Widdecombe, glancing up from the scratches on the newel post. “These are matters that they would not understand.”
    “The cats and I shouldn’t have left all at once,” said Olive, rubbing her stinging eyes with her sweatshirt cuff. “I shouldn’t have gone at all. But we thought the house was safe.”
    “We
all
thought the house was safe, Olive,” Mrs. Dewey assured her. “I used a charm against uninvited guests, Byron added his protective spells, Delora foresaw no reason to worry—”
    Olive shook her head violently. “I should have known Annabelle would find a way inside,” she said. “But I thought she would come after
me,
not my parents. I don’t know what she’ll do with them.” Olive swallowed a sob. “What if we’re already too late?”
    Delora glided to the foot of the stairs. “I am quite certain that your parents are alive, Olive,” she said. Her voice was soft and steady. “If they were not, I would hear them speaking from the other side. But if you have an object that belonged to one of them, something they used frequently, I may be able to tell you more . . .”
    Olive sniffled. Slowly, she held out her father’s glasses, which she’d been gripping so tightly that their lenses were white with fog.
    Delora closed her eyes again, lifting the glasses on one palm. “I can see him,” she murmured.
    Olive held her breath.
    “Yes . . .” Delora continued. “A tall, thin man . . . receding brown hair . . . a blue shirt with an ink stain on its sleeve . . .”
    Olive’s heart performed a pole vault. “That’s what he was wearing tonight!” she exclaimed.
    “That is all that I can see,” said Delora, looking down at Olive. “But I can assure you, Olive, that he is most definitely alive.”
    Olive let out a burst of air. “What about my mother?” she asked, jumping to her feet. “Can you make sure about her too?” While everyone stared after her, Olive raced into the library, grabbing the silver pen that always lay at a perfect ninety-degree angle along the side of her mother’s desk. She skidded back into the entryway and pressed the pen into Delora’s hands.
    Delora’s eyelids fluttered. “I see the hands that held this pen. No polish on the