Split Second - Catherine Coulter [71]
Her cell phone rang, once, twice, three times, but she ignored it, pressed speaker, and let it go to voice mail. She heard Dillon’s deep voice speaking, but she paid no attention.
She stroked the ring with her thumb, then said the word again: “SEFYLL.”
Dillon stopped speaking in mid-sentence. It seemed to Lucy that the very air stopped, but only for a moment, and then her cell blared out the racing trumpet call again, then rang—one ring, two rings, three rings. And there was Dillon’s voice, and he was repeating what he’d said before.
Like a rubber band snapping back. She fell into the big leather wing chair, heart pounding, too confused to be frightened. What had happened? Dillon was speaking the same words he’d been saying before. She blinked when she heard him say, “So, bottom line, it was Kirsten who struck on Wall Street last night, and she had an accomplice. Call me.”
It was the oddest feeling, listening to him, knowing what he would say. Had he been cut off, called her twice, repeated the same message? She grabbed her cell. What had he said? “Dillon? Lucy here. Ah, you said there was an accomplice with Kirsten last night?”
There was a moment of silence, then, “Are you okay, Lucy?”
“What? Oh, yes, sure, I’m okay.”
Another brief pause, then, “I know Dr. Judd contacted you about the findings of the autopsy. I’m sorry.”
So, he’d called Dillon, too. Well, no surprise there. “Thank you, Dillon.”
“Coop asked me to call you, said you weren’t picking up. They’ve been interviewing Thomas Hurley, and they’ve got a police artist making a sketch.”
But Lucy couldn’t stop staring at the huge ring still sitting comfortably on her middle finger.
“Lucy?”
“I’m sorry, Dillon. Would you tell me something? Did you call me twice just now, get cut off maybe, and called again, or did you call only once?”
“Just once, and you called me right back.”
“I must have been mistaken, then. Don’t worry about it. I guess it has been quite a week, Dillon. I’m okay, though.”
Dillon wondered for an instant if Lucy was drunk, but no, that couldn’t be right. She sounded like she wasn’t really there, like she wasn’t hearing him, or didn’t care. Something was wrong.
“Lucy, is there something you want to tell me?”
Tell him? And look mad? Tell him this ring and this letter were scaring her to her toes? Say something!
“I’m fine, really. The house is no longer a crime scene, they cleared it this morning, but I’m not about to visit the attic, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Tell you what, Lucy, you stay right there, and I’ll be over with some takeout, all right? Sherlock and Coop won’t be back until late, a flight delay. I’ll call you later.”
She scarcely heard him. She punched off her cell and stared at the ring. That word—SEFYLL—when she’d said it aloud, when she’d said it correctly, time seemed to stop dead for a second or two, then replay itself. That sounded ridiculous. Was she being crazy? Maybe saying the word right on the ring conjured up some sort of weird hypnotic suggestion that made it appear that way.
Lucy took a deep breath, picked up the Chinese lamp that stood atop a side table, and flung it against the fireplace. As it shattered, she said clearly, “SEFYLL.”
Everything stopped, and suddenly the lamp was back on the end table, whole, untouched. She saw what seemed to be a small shudder in time itself. Another couple of seconds passed—nothing happened. She ran to the lamp, put her hands on it, and waited. More seconds passed, and still nothing happened, nothing at all. The Chinese lamp she’d hurled against the fireplace and smashed into a gazillion pieces was sitting, solid and unharmed, on the tabletop. She sat down in the large leather chair at her grandmother’s desk and stared in front of her. She wasn’t crazy, and if something unbelievable was happening, something incredible, she wouldn’t let it scare her stupid. She would understand it.
She began to experiment.
She held the ring—she learned she had to be holding it in her hand—and said the word clearly.