Free The Woman Next Door by T. M. Wright Page A

. . I don't know. All my work is in storage. Maybe I'll get around to hanging it someday. I haven't really given it much thought."
    "Maybe this is a new start—this house, I mean." Christine thought a moment. "Maybe. In a way it is. Tim says it is."
    "Tim's your husband?"
    "Uh-huh. Maybe you've seen him."
    "Tall, lean, Kris Kristofferson type?"
    Christine laughed. "That's the first time I've heard that comparison."
    "I've seen him. All the women around here used to take turns gawking at him when he was working on this place." She broke into a playful smile. "Excuse me, Christine. One of my bad habits—at least as far as wives are concerned—is a genuine aesthetic appreciation of good-looking men."
    Christine smiled back; this woman was no threat, merely candid. Tim was good-looking, after all.
    "And," Becky continued, standing suddenly, "on that clumsy note, I must be off."
    "So soon?" Christine's disappointment was genuine. "I told myself before I came over that I had only time enough for"—she put on a quick, passable Groucho Marx imitation—"'Hello, I must be going,' because I had a few minutes between one little darling and another. I babysit, you see, staggered shifts—if you're fond of pandemonium, I recommend it—and my next little darling is due"—she checked her watch—"five minutes ago. She's probably set the house on fire by now." She started for the door, stopped briefly. "May I come back sometime?" She grinned. "When your husband's home?"
    "Definitely not when my husband's home, but any other time, please feel free."
    "Good. I will."
    Becky Foster left, and Christine thought she was the kind of person who was easy to talk to, and very easy to like.

Chapter 10
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    "M r. Courtney, your wife's on the line."
    Brett grimaced. "Okay, Sharon"—his grimace became a look of resignation—"I'll take the call."
    Marilyn came on the line immediately. "Brett? It's me."
    "What is it, Marilyn?"
    "You don't have to sound so testy."
    "I'm not testy, Marilyn; I'm busy."
    "Too busy to talk to your wife, I suppose."
    He sighed. "No, Marilyn."
    "I just wanted to talk with you, Brett. I just wanted to have a nice conversation. I won't take up too much of your time."
    "Uh-huh."
    "I thought you should know: There's some kind of . . . I don't know, some kind of draft in the house, and I can't seem to find out where it's coming from. I've checked everywhere—"
    "Did you check the attic? The top half of the window that faces the street falls open sometimes. I guess I should fix it one of these days."
    "No, Brett, I didn't check the attic, but I don't think—"
    "Check it first, then let me know."
    "I'm sure you're wrong, but I'll check it if you want." A pause, then: "Oh, and that little crippled girl came over again today."
    "Little crippled girl?"
    "Christine Bennet . She lives in that ugly little house next door. I've told you about her."
    "Oh, yes."
    "Quite a nice girl, too. A little shy, perhaps a bit too introspective for my tastes, but—"
    "Marilyn, I have to go now. There's a client coming in shortly and—"
    "Okay, Brett, I get the message."
    "Check that window, like I said."
    "Okay, Brett."
    "Good-bye, Marilyn."
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    I t would have to be done, Marilyn realized. And she'd have to do it, much as she disliked the idea. It was possible that the attic window had fallen open, as Brett said, and that the winter air was moving into the house.
    It was no big thing, she told herself. She could run to the top of the stairs, run to the window, close it—if it was open—and then run back downstairs. No big thing.
    Why, then, was the idea so terrifying? Why, she asked herself, was she convinced that something was in the attic waiting for her?
    "Because I'm a stupid shit!" she said aloud. Because things waited in attics, just like things waited in cellars and in locked rooms and in old, abandoned houses.
    She glanced at the phone. Maybe she could call Brett back and say, "The