The Whispering Hollows by Lisa Unger Read Free Book Online Page A

officer picked up the phone in front of her. “Someone with possible information about Sarah.”
    It wasn’t a minute before a gray-haired man with a thick unkempt mustache (his wife hated it) was standing in front of her. He had dark circles under his eyes, a look of terrible weariness that was more than fatigue (unhappy marriage, struggling with his teenage children, fed up with his job).
    â€œCan I help you?” Something crossed his face. Recognition. He knew who she was.
    There was something about him. Something strong and appealing, a man who handled things, who didn’t rest until a job was done. He was the right person to talk to; she was sure of that. His name had been in her head, even though she’d never met him. Of course, The Hollows was a small town. She’d probably heard everyone’s name at least once, knew what most people did for a living.
    â€œCan we speak alone?”
    He squinted at her, then led her into his office. She told him the truth—everything, from the accident, to the first vision about the girl in the well. (He liked that; a fact he could confirm. He opened a notebook, jotted something down, then turned back to her.) This was long before computers were a feature on everybody’s desk. He watched her attentively, head tilted, eyes narrowed, as she recounted the visions she had about Sarah.
    Well, she didn’t exactly tell him the whole truth. She told him about the man who took Sarah, everything about him, even the things she had not acknowledged fully to herself, including what she thought might be the first letter of his name. The words just tumbled out of her, almost as if she didn’t have anything to do with what she was saying.
    She didn’t tell him exactly the way Sarah had died. That was not the reason she’d had the vision; she knew that. She was here to help them find her. She was here to make sure the man didn’t do what he would eventually do to another girl. It was a cold, hard certainty within her.
    â€œYou said dirt under his fingernails,” Muldune said when she was done. He was doodling on a pad in front of him. (Something he did that helped him think. His wife hated that, too. She hated a number of his little quirks, things he was powerless to change.)
    â€œNot dirt,” she said. “Oil maybe.”
    â€œHands calloused, dry?”
    She closed her eyes, trying to remember. “Yes,” she said finally. “I think so.”
    â€œLike maybe he worked in a garage?”
    Eloise shook her head thoughtfully. It sounded right, but she’d reached the end of her knowledge, and that horrible thrum of anxiety had subsided. She’d done what she needed to do. A tremendous wave of relief and fatigue crashed over her.
    â€œWell,” he said after another moment. “Thank you for your help. We’ll be in touch if we need any more information.”
    A respectful blow off—which was actually fine. She wasn’t one of those glommers-on, someone who wanted to help solve crimes, or stand on the sidelines watching the investigation unfold. She didn’t want attention or credit. She wanted to do what she had been asked to do, nothing more.
    She left then, got in her car and drove home and cleaned the house. Maybe that was it, she told herself as she scrubbed the floor with a nearly religious zeal. Maybe that was the final event. Sarah was gone—not in the foyer, not in the kitchen or the upstairs bath.
    The house was quiet except for the soft mewing of Oliver, the new kitten that she had brought home for Amanda. Alfie had always been allergic, so they’d never had pets. Oliver wasn’t much of a consolation prize, but he brought some much needed cuteness and comedy relief into their grim little house where the dead dominated.
    Eloise had thought a kitten might be good for her daughter, who recently seemed to have discovered rage. Amanda was angry at Eloise—for having a