Free The Girl With Aquamarine Eyes by Shelley Madden

matter, which he knew by all intents and
purposes should be atop the step behind him.
    There was nothing behind his head. Only the slick, smooth
and dry stair step.
    He finally took a sharp breath, and gazed at the unseen
entity which he knew had broken his fall.
    There was no one there, as he expected. As if he knew what
the hell to look for in the first place. Lately, nothing seemed to surprise him
anymore. Not since the strange girl arrived. First the window and then her
legs. No, it was her legs and then the window.
    He groaned, grabbed the stair rail and slowly eased himself
upright. He stood for a moment, gazing down the long flight of steps. He could
see himself lying on the bottom atop Harmon’s imported wool rug, as crimson
stains from his head slowly spun the fibers into a new pattern. Harmon would’ve
had his ass for that.
    Harmon. He shook his head clear. She had said Harmon was in
trouble. He’d raced down the stairs to find the musician. But something had
happened. He struggled to remember. He’d fallen.
    He stared up the staircase. He inhaled sharply, still
struggling to breathe as his eyes slowly focused on the macabre scene above
him. Heaven was on the landing, apparently out cold. Or, dead.
    Her arm dangled from the top step. Her face seemed frozen in
time, staring unblinking into a distant galaxy only she could see. She must be
dead. If not she was about to be, because gravity was tugging at her,
threatening to bring her rolling down the stairs atop him at any moment.
    They’d both go down, only to be found dead on the lovely
wool rug Harmon insisted on placing at the bottom of the staircase. Harmon may
give up having it cleaned and simply have Hawk roll them up in it, and dispose
of the entire mess.
    But knowing Harmon, he’d have Bice’s bloody face print on
the fine wool framed and hung. That way, the musician would have his own LA
version of the Shroud of Turin. They’d stare at it at parties, laugh and
chuckle as their wine glasses clinked together. He’d be a conversation piece
for eternity.
    He shook his head clear and choked back a sob. God how he
needed a drink. He stared up the staircase. “Heaven?”
    She continued to lay deathly still on the landing. A broken
doll cast aside by a spoiled child in favor of a newer, unbroken one.
    He staggered up the steps to her, this time clutching
tightly to the rail. Damned Harmon to hell for buying a split level home. He’d
let him know what he thought about the lousy staircase the moment he found the
eccentric singer. To hell with moving to the far wing, he’d insist on a ground
floor near the maid quarters.
    “Heaven, wake up!” Her head rolled from side to side as he
shook her. She continued to lie unmoving, her chest rising and falling in time
to the marching band which beat in his head. She was out cold, down for the
count. Maybe the fall was her coup de grace.
    He had to do something quickly. He gazed down the long hall
toward her room. It was too far. There was no time to carry her and place her
safely back on the bed. He must get to Harmon quickly. If it wasn’t already too
late.
    He grabbed her arms and pulled her across the floor to the
first door. He kicked it open, carried her to the bed and dropped her onto it.
    He rushed out the door, grabbed the keys from his pocket and
locked it behind him. He raced once more down the long flight of stairs,
carefully gripping the rail with both hands. Time was working against him. God
help them all if he couldn’t find Harmon immediately.
    He wasn’t sure what was going on, but he would make it known
to the musician the girl had kept him from splitting his head open on the
stairs, thus saving the priceless wool rug.
    He knew she was behind it.
    If not, Harmon had himself one hell of a ghost to add to his
many collections from distant lands. Another masterpiece to display, besides
his crimson face imprint on the fine wool rug.
    * * *
    He leapt the last three steps down the staircase from hell