Look Both Ways by Carol J. Perry Read Free Book Online

“Thank you,” he said, then, following my directions, pressed the spot he’d selected.
    Nothing happened.
    He frowned. “Did I do something wrong?”
    â€œI don’t think so. Let me try.” He stepped behind me, still holding me close, but with both arms around my waist now.
    I’m pretty sure he’s not totally focused on the bureau anymore.
    I pressed the panel, just the way Grandmother Forbes had taught me to so many years ago. The wood, which had appeared seamless, gave under my pressure, and a section that was about two inches by four inches slid aside. “See?” I said. “It’s easy. Shall I close it again so you can do it?”
    â€œAre you kidding? No. Let’s see what’s in there.”
    I laughed as Pete’s concentration returned to the bureau. A compartment with two shallow square pockets, side by side, had been revealed. Each one contained a tissue-wrapped object. “Shall we each take one?” I asked.
    â€œOkay,” he said. “You go first.”
    â€œAll right.” I stuck my index finger into the space on the left and pried the article carefully from its hiding place. “Your turn.”
    â€œMy fingers might be too big,” he said, letting go of me completely and poking at the tiny shape in the remaining pocket. “This is fun. Like a treasure hunt at a kid’s birthday party.”
    After a few stabs at it, the little parce fell into his hand. We looked at one another, each holding a slim tissue-wrapped package. “Shall we open them together?” He smiled broadly.
    I had to laugh. “You look as though you really are at a kid’s birthday party. Okay. One, two, three . . . open ’em!”
    Mine was a shiny 1951 Benjamin Franklin half-dollar. His was a tarnished brass Salem, Massachusetts, dog license.
    â€œCool,” he said. “But yours is more valuable. Real silver.”
    â€œI like yours better. It’s a remembrance of a pet somebody loved.”
    â€œTrue. Shall we do another one?” he asked, still smiling.
    â€œDid you figure out any more of them?” I asked. “The panel you found is one of the most difficult.”
    â€œIt’s the only one I spotted. A tiny indentation in the wood. Did you say you have directions?”
    â€œI do. I left them in the top drawer where Shea put them. Want to get them out while I pour us another cup of coffee?”
    â€œOkay.”
    I headed for the kitchen, while Pete spread one of the pieces of tissue paper on the bed and carefully arranged our treasures on it. When I returned with the coffee, Pete was facing the bureau, his back to me.
    â€œI don’t see them, babe,” he said. “You sure this is where you left them?”
    He stepped aside, and I saw that instead of opening the top drawer, he’d removed the lace runner and lifted the hinged center panel, exposing the black mirror. I wanted to scream, “No!” and race across the room and slam it shut, but instead I managed to place the mugs calmly on the floor and walk over to where he stood. I reached out and closed the thing—but not before I saw the little cloud, then the flashing lights and swirling colors that always preceded the damned visions.
    Not now. Not tonight. Not in front of Pete.
    â€œN-n-no,” I stuttered. “Not that one.” My hand shook as I tugged at the half-moon–shaped wooden drawer pulls. “In here.”
    â€œLee. Shhh. Come here. Sit down.” He led me to the bed. “You’re as pale as a ghost. What’s wrong?”
    â€œNothing,” I said. “Really. I’m fine.”
    â€œNo,” he said. “You’re not. I shouldn’t have come tonight. You’ve been through so much today, finding Shea . . . the way she was, and going through all that questioning.” He sat beside me and held both of my hands. “Listen. Why don’t we finish going through your