A Shred of Truth by Eric Wilson Read Free Book Online Page A

wanted to believe otherwise. I really did.”
    With the yellow-ribboned hat still in my hand, I watched her march off and wondered if she was right. The impulsive lip lock, the protective sarcasm, and emotional walls. Had I just hidden my old ways behind a wall of good intentions?
    I turned the hat over and peeled off a small envelope taped to the straw. As I stood among the pristine displays of sparkling Fabergé creations, fear swelled against my rib cage. I removed a note and a blood-crusted razor blade, imagining the silver edge splitting my brother’s flesh. Flashing in the moonlight. Dripping red.
    “Felicia, wait!” I darted toward the hallway.
    “Whoa, slow down.” The guard appeared and blocked my path. “We’re closing, so you’re going to have to mosey on toward the parking area. Maybe save yourself some heartache.”
    Not likely. The man’s advice went against the note’s instructions.

7
    T he note was a typed clue: “Hit the trail, but keep the razor. You’ll need it to find piece at the steeple.”
    Find
piece
? I doubted that was an accident.
    In my mind’s eye, I pulled up the Cheekwood map that I’d seen on the Web site. The Woodland Sculpture Trail ran along the back edge of the mansion, with sites on the path numbered according to the presiding displays.
    The
Steeple Dance
. Third on the list.
    With the clock ticking, I’d have to move quickly and avoid a confrontation with the estate guards. Though worried about Felicia’s safety, I was driven by a greater need to discover the identity and motive of the person behind this stupid game. He might be out there, waiting for me among the trees.
    “Nice exhibit,” I said to the security guard.
    He eyed me with distrust as I moved as nonchalantly as possible down the spiral staircase in the center of the mansion. I pretended to turn toward the front foyer, then cut back through a passageway that led to an outside arbor. He hadn’t followed me. Good. I padded up a stone walkway, then sprinted across the back lawn, past a swan fountain. Following directions. Heading for the trail.
    Only minutes until closing. What would I find back here? Another person tied to a sculpture and bleeding onto the forest floor?
    Felicia’s words:
obey the instructions if you want to know the truth
.
    The truth. About what exactly?
    I tramped through the underbrush. Darkness deepened beneath the merging clumps of trees, offering at least some concealment.
    The trail. There. Should I veer left or right?
    Left
.
    I ran now, envelope and razor in one hand, Desert Eagle in the other. I knew where I was headed. The straw hat fluttered from my grip, but it didn’t matter. On either side of the path, the woods were so still I could hear my shirt swishing with each pump of my arms, my feet padding over bark and turf.
    BEAR:
breathe, evaluate, act rapidly
. I’d learned that from one of my street pals as a teenager.
    In the clearing ahead, rusty-orange spires stabbed at angles into the gray sky. I’d seen the
Steeple Dance
sculpture online and in the brochure. What I hadn’t seen was the object swaying on a cord from a branch of a cedar tree. A casual passerby would’ve missed it.
    I took a deep breath, peered around, listened. As far as I could tell, I was alone. I walked closer and reached for the object. Too high. I tried to gauge the distance.
    Seemed innocent enough. A small bag cinched with leather straps.
    Find piece at the steeple …
    A piece of what? I paused. A finger? An earlobe?
    Whatever this was, whatever was in there, it was all part of the sicko’s game.
    I glanced around the clearing and walked to the back of the sculpture into the thickening shadows. With a good jump, I might be able to snag it. But what would I be grabbing? Last fall I’d found the horror of a clump of hair in an envelope that sent shivers through my limbs.
    C’mon. Just grab the thing. Get this over with
.
    I told my feet to back up and get a running start, but they stayed planted