The Bequest by [email protected] Read Free Book Online Page B

the cell
phone in her pocket, and hurried straight to the kitchen. Almost as if on
autopilot, she filled the coffee maker with water, measured coffee into the
filter, and pushed the “on” button. As the water boiled and coffee dripped
into the pot, she stared out the kitchen window at the blackness that
seemed so fitting. She didn’t know how long she stood there, but when
she turned back around, the coffee was finished.
She filled a cup, then went into the den and curled up on the couch in
the dark. Her gaze drifted to the fireplace, the white cover of The Precipice barely showing in the shadows, face up. Just as, earlier, it had seemed to
reach out and grab her ankle as she walked by, it felt as if it were calling to
her yet again. This time, though, she answered the call.
She set her cup on the coffee table and approached the fireplace,
opened the screen, and took out the script. She dusted a few stray ashes
off and then returned to the couch, turned on a lamp and, for the first
time, actually opened the cover.
And began reading.
    An older model Chevrolet sedan sat curbside in front of Teri’s house. A
lone occupant sat behind the wheel: Annemarie Crowell. Annemarie
watched the house as lights came on, first in what she remembered as
being the kitchen from her prior visit, then a softer, fainter light from the
living area. The light by the couch. Annemarie knew the actress was sitting
on the couch, Leland’s screenplay in hand. Reading it.
At long last, reading it.
    An hour and a half later, Teri turned the last page. A cup of cold coffee sat
untouched on the table before her. She sat silently, digesting what she had
read.
    She pulled her cell from her pocket and dialed a number. After
several rings, Mike Capalletti’s sleepy voice answered. “Hello? Teri?”
“The script is brilliant,” she said. “What’s our next step?”
PART TWO:
THE PRECIPICE
CHAPTER 11
    Only one word
could adequately describe the look on Teri Squire’s
face: fear. What the hell was she doing there, so far from the comforts of
her own home? This was not the kind of house she made a habit of going
to. The last one like this had been Spencer West’s so-called office, dark
and drab, filled with cast-off furniture. She stood silently in the entryway,
just inside the front door, head cocked, as if listening.
    “Hello? Anybody home?”
Nothing.
She stepped deeper into the house, across the entryway and stopped
    at the edge of the house’s living area. Torn wallpaper hung from the wall
beside her and the roof sagged directly above her head, spotted with
yellow watermarks. She heard scampering sounds in the attic, too heavy
for mice, too light for raccoons. Probably squirrels.
    At least she hoped it was squirrels.
She hesitated for a moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the
blackness of the house, which was darker than outside, even though it was
a moonless night. She pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket, held it
close to her face, and squinted. This was the address she had been given,
but there was nothing familiar about the house or its contents, at least to
the extent she could see them.
She tucked the paper back in her pocket then reached inside to the
den wall and felt for a light switch. She flipped it, but no light came on.
She took out her cell phone, pushed an app button, and it lit up. She held
it out, its light meager but at least allowing her some field of vision.
Directly ahead was a fireplace with a barren mantel above it. She moved
the phone around, trying to gauge the rest of the room. A couch, sticklegged coffee table, recliner, television—all aged, all ragged, and all there
was. The walls were barren, striking in the absence of any signs that this
house was lived in.
A dark spot in front of the couch drew her attention. She walked
closer and knelt beside the darkness, about the size of a manhole cover on
the threadbare carpet. She extended her phone to see better, then gasped.
It was reddish in color. She