Edge of Midnight by Charlene Weir Read Free Book Online

Then she saw the emblem on his shirt sleeve. Security. She nearly fainted with relief. Not a cop looking for her, simply a bus depot security man. For the rest of her wait, she stood by the door and watched the clock tick away the minutes, scrutinized the people who drifted in and out, watched a man sweep up discarded paper cups and empty French fry containers.
    She longed for a cup of coffee, not only for the liquid that would coat her dry throat, but for the caffeine that might ease the headache scrabbling at her temples. What did it matter if she spent two dollars? Would two dollars keep her alive? Get her further away? She dug out a twenty and went to the snack bar. The wilted-looking sandwiches didn’t even tempt her, though she was starving; she felt slightly sick. She asked for coffee, took the hot cup and added cream and sugar. Holding it with both hands, she sipped cautiously to keep from scalding her lips. Bitter coffee that had probably been simmering all day. She took another sip, bigger, and let the hot liquid burn her throat. The price of freedom.
    When her bus departure was announced, she climbed aboard with stiff legs, found a seat midway back and dropped into it. A youngish man with brown hair plopped beside her and stowed a canvas bag under the seat. The bus rolled. The miles flattened out behind her, each one carried her farther and farther away. The band of fear clamped around her chest kept her awake for hour after hour, but finally she put her hands under her cheek and closed her eyes.

 
    5
    Running, running.
    Joe had to wake up. The only way out was to wake up.
    The ground was spongy, layers of rotted leaves. They slipped and slithered as he struggled to keep his balance. If he fell, he’d never make it. She would die.
    The leaves had a sweet, sickly smell. He knew that smell, the smell of decay, of death.
    It was waiting for him. Danger. He would die.
    Lungs on fire, breath coming hard. His ankle twisted. He fell, rolled. The smell was stronger. Blood. He rolled in it. Palm prints, dripping blood appeared on his white shirt. The blood ran and swirled into letters, red dripping letters that spelled her name.

 
    6
    â€œLook, Mommy, the horsey’s wearing shoes.” Four-year-old Bethie, seated with her mommy at the square table for grownups, watched as the horsey with shoes was led past the window outside.
    â€œMost horses wear shoes, Bethie, it protects their feet.” Ignoring her daughter’s hand tugging at her sleeve, Trudy studied the menu. Honestly, the child never shut up. From the moment she said her first da-da, she was off and running. Running off at the mouth, that is. Ha ha.
    Trudy would never say a negative word about her child, never, but Bethie was just the teeniest bit chatty and her voice was a teeny bit high, and sometimes, like now after a long day, Trudy got the least bit—uh, weary. She touched fingertips to her temple. Her head was beginning to hurt, just a teeny bit. She’d thought taking Beth out for dinner would be something to occupy the child, but all she did was talk, and maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.
    â€œThe horsey has shoes just like mine.”
    â€œNo darling, horses wear shoes made of…” What the hell were horseshoes made of?
    â€œMommy! Mommy! Look! Look!”
    Trudy lowered the menu just in time to see an irate manager rush over to a woman leading the tiniest pony she’d ever seen, with tiny white sneakers even smaller than Bethie’s, into the restaurant.
    *   *   *
    As the clock ticked around past six, Susan shuffled papers from one side of her desk to the other. If she got out of here right now while everything was quiet, she might make an escape and be able to keep her dinner date with Fran. Yawning, she rolled her shoulders to work out the kinks. What she really wanted was a hot bath and to go to bed with a good book. Why was she so tired lately? Nothing more worrisome on the