Asking for Trouble - Leslie Kelly [34]
Shutting down his computer, he left the office and wandered into the kitchen, half expecting to see Lottie there, making dinner. He never had gotten that lunch she’d offered earlier. They’d been very distracted immediately after she’d suggested it.
But the kitchen was empty. Silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator. The lights were off, here and everywhere else on the first floor—other than the office—which surprised him.
Wondering if she’d gotten caught up in whatever she’d found in the basement, he went down there, but that, too, was dark and deserted. Shadowy. Moist. He certainly didn’t blame her for choosing to work elsewhere.
“But where?” he whispered.
A sudden, disturbing thought made him hurry back upstairs. After what had happened this morning, had he scared her off? Had she decided she wasn’t safe in the house of the crazy murderer on the hill, packed her bag and left without a word?
Her car was still parked outside. Besides, no one had come to work on it, so his fear had not only been irrational, it had been stupid.
But he was still incredibly relieved she hadn’t gone. He didn’t pause to analyze why, beyond acknowledging that he shouldn’t have felt so glad she had stuck around. He barely knew Lottie, and he’d been wanting her gone since the minute she’d arrived.
Liar.
Maybe at first he’d wanted her gone. But somehow, during the one day she’d been here, he’d remembered that he used to be a social person. He’d liked people. He’d particularly liked women.
The wrong women, in some cases.
Going out to the front porch, he couldn’t help glancing toward the edge of the lawn, another fear rising inside him. It had been only four months since his uncle—who’d lived here all his life—had taken one fatal misstep off the edge of those cliffs. And something told him Lottie was in some kind of trouble. Call it intuition strengthened by three months of near solitude, but whatever the case, he wasn’t about to wait around for her to wander back.
Because she might not be able to.
Taking the steps three at a time, he ran across the still-wet grass, the starry moonlit sky providing adequate light. As soon as he reached the closest drop-off, though, he realized he should have grabbed a flashlight. “Stupid,” he muttered. But unwilling to leave without taking a cursory look, he peered down into the rocky darkness, where the mountain cut away sharply toward the valley—and the town—below.
It was useless without more light. “Lottie!” he called, then repeated the call twice more. If she was hurt or stranded, she could at least yell out and signal her location.
Nothing. The night was silent except for a light breeze rustling through the dried leaves beneath the massive maple and oak trees that marked the boundary of the lawn. Uncle Roger had planted them decades ago, hoping to keep curious hotel visitors away from the dangerous cliffs.
If only they’d kept him away.
Simon’s concern now gripping him so tightly his chest ached, he strode toward the house, knowing he had to get more light. He hadn’t made a full search, so he’d do so now then he was calling the police down in Trouble. But before he got to the porch, he heard something that sounded like a voice.
Stopping abruptly, he yelled, “Lottie?”
“Up here, I’m up here.”
He looked up, seeing nothing but the night sky, then noticed a glimmer of light under the eaves at the very top of the house. “The attic,” he murmured, immediately realizing where she’d gone.
Okay, so he’d overreacted. He’d been the one who’d suggested she search the attic, and it should have been the first place he’d checked. But somehow after Charleston, he’d found himself immediately fearing the worst rather than thinking logically, as he always had before.
The bullet had taken away a chunk of his optimism along with a chunk of his chest.
“Simon, do you hear me?” came the faint cry.
“Are you in the attic?”
“Yes! I’m locked in, please come let me out.”
Locked in. His relief was so great, he almost wanted to laugh that she’d managed to lock herself in on the top