Free Last Whisper by Carlene Thompson Page B

Instantly the squeaking sound stopped, and as Brooke became more alert she realized someone was trying to push up the window. She pulled back the drapery a fraction to see that a hole had been cut into the screen—a hole high up, close to the window lock. In a moment, she heard a man speak. “Brooke, it’s all right. God sent me. Just hold still.” And she did hold still, frozen by fear and shock, long enough to see the face of a man—long, pale, wrinkled, with a slightly crooked nose and hooded, exhausted dark eyes. A face that although it had grown older, she would never forget.
    Zachary Tavell.
    Without realizing it, Brooke began to shriek. The face darted away from the window, and Elise started barking furiously. Then someone from behind her yelled, “Brooke, what’s wrong?”
    She screamed again at the nearby voice, then turned tosee Vincent. “Z-Zach,” she managed. “He was outside looking in the bedroom window.”
    Vincent looked as if he was trying to convince himself that Brooke had dreamed the face at the window, but Elise’s vociferous barking eliminated that possibility. He turned and bounded from the room.
    Brooke crawled away from the window, followed by Elise, and huddled by the bed frame, clutching the dog and trying to slow her painfully thudding heart. She hadn’t seen Zach Tavell for fifteen years, yet just a glance at him had filled her with dread and terror.
    From beyond the bedroom, Brooke heard Vincent talking loudly and Sam shouting. Then they quieted. She crawled from the bedroom, thinking of what an easy target she would make if she stood with the window right behind her. She slunk into the living room, which was empty, and huddled by the huge stone hearth. What seemed like minutes, which were probably only seconds, ticked by before she heard an unfamiliar male voice yell, “Stop! Police!” Another couple of seconds ticked by before, “Police!”
    And then, the gunshot.

five
1
    Brooke slowly opened her eyes and looked up at a graceful ceiling fan swirling slowly above her bed. She did not have a ceiling fan above her bed. She jerked up, ready for flight. Elise, too, jumped, then crept toward her, touching Brooke’s nose with her own. Instinctively, Brooke ran her hands over the dog’s slim, warm body, which edged comfortingly toward her own. Outside, Brooke heard mourning doves searching the grass for breakfast. She looked around the beautiful ivory and lilac bedroom. For an instant, she wondered in whose bed she slept. Then relief washed over her when she realized she was in the Lockhart house, the home once occupied by Sam and Laura, now by Sam and Vincent. She was protected. She was safe.
    Still, she felt fearful. Although she wore a light gauze gown, her body was sticky from perspiration brought on by her images of Mia’s and her mother’s shattered bodies that had danced through her tortured sleep. Brooke got out of bed slowly, feeling every muscle ache from the strain ofyesterday’s attack. Or rather, two attacks. Last night, after she learned Zach Tavell had escaped the surveillance team, she had simply crawled back into this bed and shivered for the next hour; then somehow, out of sheer physical and emotional exhaustion, she’d fallen asleep.
    As soon as she got out of bed, her legs gave way. She crumpled to the floor, totally alert but too terrified to stand up. She didn’t call for help. She refused to give in to fear. Instead, she rested for about ten minutes, then slowly stood up, listening to birds chirping in the bright morning sun she could see through the crack where the draperies met. The sun. Light. Zach wouldn’t dare come near her in the light, she thought. He always committed his murders in the night.
    Someone had placed a glass of water on the bedside table, and she drank it dry. Then she headed for the bathroom. She longed for a hot shower, still imagining she could feel the stickiness of Mia’s drying blood on her face, her hands, in her hair, even