Crooked House by Joe McKinney, Wayne Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

the windows to his left made no sound.
    “Hello?” he said.
    The smell seemed to be coming from a room just off the landing, where a door stood ajar. He thought back to several hours earlier, when he and Sarah had chased Angela down this hall. Robert thought he remembered that all the doors along the length of this passageway had been closed when he was here before, but he couldn’t be sure.
    He put his hand on the knob and swallowed. His throat felt tight and dry, and though it wasn’t cold up here, he was trembling. Somebody was in that room, he was certain of it. Holding his breath, he pushed the door open, groped the wall for the light switch, and turned it on.
    The room was empty.
    It looked like it had been empty for a long while, too. Not just years, but perhaps decades. And it wasn’t a bedroom either. There was no bed, no dresser, no sign of a closet. Only chairs in groups of twos and threes arranged around three different wooden card tables. The back wall was curved and he realized that this must have been the sitting room of the lady of the house. The curved windows along the far wall looked over a gazebo and a small rose garden. This room must have been on the edge of the fire damage, for the wall on the right side was different from its mate on his left. The difference was subtle, but easy enough to see.
    The smell of smoke of was g one, as too was the whispering.
    When had that stopped ? He searched his memory, but couldn’t remember.
    He looked around the ro om again. Like the rest of Crook House’s interior, it was aristocratic and elegant, perhaps even more so than the rest of the house. It spoke in whispers of soft blue and cream, with hints of raspberry pink accenting the cushions of the delicate chairs and the powder blue lampshades. Definitely a woman’s retreat, he thought.
    “Fucking bitch,” he muttered.
    He froze.
    Where in the hell had that come from?
    He stood up straight and scratched at his neck. He sniffed the air. The smell of smoke was back. Robert frowned. He could almost – no, no he could, he did – hear wood crackling and hissing. A fire. That’s what she did, the fucking bitch. That fucking bitch . You build up a home for them, a family, you work yourself to the bone day and night, day and night, when you’re sick, when you’re tired, when your head’s so fucking full of worries that you think you’re going to blow a vein in your neck, you still work because you’re the man and it’s your job and you do it and you do it and you do it, again and again. And then the bitch, that fucking bitch, she goes and loses her fucking mind and strangles your babies and burns your house and you come home to nothing because it’s all been for nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing –
    There was a snap.
    Robert shook himself, and looked down at his hands. The back of the chair he’d been holding was in bits, a busted piece of it in each hand.
    “Oh God. ” He dropped the busted chair. He was breathing hard, his skin flushed with heat. With his sense of alarm mounting he backed out of the room and stopped in the hallway, looking at the door.
    The anger he’d felt inside still clung to him. Like smoke.
    He shook his head, trying to make it go away . He squeezed his eyes shut. His squeezed his fists so tightly his hands shook. He even beat his fists against his thighs, like he could pound the bad feelings away. But he couldn’t shake them.
    “Robert?”
    He jumped. He turned toward the landing and saw Sarah standing there in her T-shirt and panties and bare feet.
    “What are doing up here?” she said, her voice heavy with sleep . “I thought I heard you yelling. Were you yelling?”
    All he could manage was to shake his head.
    She sniffled and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “Well, come on. Let’s go back to bed.” She motioned for him to follow. Robert paused only long enough to glance again at the sitting room, and then quickly went after