No Place Like Home by Mary Higgins Clark Read Free Book Online Page B

guess.”
    â€œOr Liza Barton,” Jeff injected.
    Earley reconsidered. “Oh, sure. I didn’t think about that. Finally, the doll that was left on the porch wasn’t a beat-up rag doll like the other one was. This one cost money.”
    â€œThat should make it easier to trace.”
    â€œI hope so. We’re working on it.”
    â€œKeep me posted.”
    â€œThe problem is that even if we track down the culprits, the Nolans refuse to sign a complaint,” Earley continued, frustration evident in his voice. “But Mr. Nolan plans to fence in the property and put up security cameras, so I don’t think there should be any more problems.”
    â€œClyde,” Jeff cautioned, “if there’s one thing that you and I know, it’s that, no matter what the situation, you can never assume there aren’t going to be any more problems.”
    Clyde Earley, like many other people, tended to raise his voice when he was on the phone. As Jeff replaced the receiver, it was clear that Anna had caught every word. “Jeff,” she said, “a long time ago, I read a book called Psychic Explorations. In it, the author said that when there has been a tragedy in a house, the walls retain the vibrations, and when someone with a similar background movesinto the house, the tragedy will have to be completed. The Bartons were a young, upscale couple, with a four-year-old child when they moved into the house on Old Mill Lane. From what I heard Sergeant Earley say, the Nolans are an upscale couple about that age, with a four-year-old child. Kind of makes you wonder what’s next, doesn’t it?”

9

    T he next morning when I awoke, I looked at the clock and was startled to realize that it was already quarter past eight. In a reflex gesture, I turned my head. The pillow beside me was still indented from where Alex’s head had rested on it, but the room had the feeling of being empty. Then I saw that he had propped a note against the lamp on his bedside table. I read it quickly.
    â€œDarling Ceil,
    Woke at 6 A.M . So glad to see that you were sleeping after all that you went through yesterday. Took off for an hour’s ride at the club. Will make it a short day and be home by three. Hope Jack takes well to his first day at school. I want to hear all about it. Love you both, A.”
    Years ago I read a biography of the great musical comedy star, Gertrude Lawrence, written by her husband, the producer Richard Aldrich afterher death. He had titled it Gertrude Lawrence as Mrs. A. In the six months we’d been married, whenever Alex happened to jot off a note to me, he invariably signed it “A.” I had rather enjoyed thinking of myself as Mrs. A, and even now, with the weight of awareness of where I was, I felt a lift of the heart. I wanted to be Mrs. A. I wanted a normal life in which I could smile indulgently, taking pleasure in the fact that my husband was an early bird so that he could have time for the horseback ride that he enjoyed so much.
    I got up, pulled on a robe and walked down the hall to Jack’s room. His bed was empty. I walked back into the hall and called his name, but he did not answer. Suddenly frightened, I began to call louder, “Jack . . . Jack . . . Jack”—and realized there was a note of panic in my voice. I forced my lips shut, scolding myself for being ridiculous. He probably just went downstairs to the kitchen and fixed himself some cereal. He’s an independent little boy, and often did that in the apartment. But the house had a disconcerting silence about it as I raced down the stairs and from one room to the other. I couldn’t find a trace of him. In the kitchen there was no cereal bowl or empty juice glass on the counter or in the sink.
    Jack was adventurous. Suppose he had become tired of waiting for me to wake up, and had wandered outside and become lost? He didn’t know this neighborhood.