Read Online Krewe of Hunters 8 The Uninvited by Heather Graham - Free Book Online
Authors: Heather Graham
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on
her face.
“You’ll need my number,” he reminded her.
“Oh. Yes.” She gave a deep sigh. “I do want to help the kids. I
do want to help you, even though it did look like a horrible accident.” Allison
took out her cell phone as she spoke.
“The trashing of the attic wasn’t an accident.” He removed his
phone from his pocket. “I’ll dial you,” he said.
He already had her number. Of course. He was an FBI agent.
She clicked on the call and added his number to her phone. Then
she realized she’d asked to be taken home and they’d arrived, but she was still
sitting in his car.
“I’m not sure what I can do for you,” she told him. “You’re
here, Mr. Harrison is here, the police have been through it all. I don’t know
what I could contribute.”
“I doubt that anyone is as familiar with the house or its
history as you are.” She caught herself studying the color of his eyes. They
were a mixture of blue and green, a kind of aqua she’d never seen before. He was
a very striking man.
She blinked, suddenly aware that she was staring and that she
needed to reply.
“There have been some tragic and
terrible incidents at the house, but I don’t think something that happened years
ago could have any bearing on what happened yesterday.”
He shrugged, smiling wryly. “That’s what we’ll find out.” He
exited the car and walked around to open her door.
She remembered that she was supposed to get out.
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
“Are you sure you’ll be right alone?”
“Yes, thanks. We’ll, um, be in touch.”
“Thank you,” he said with a nod.
Awkwardly, she started up her front walk. She knew he was
watching her, and when she fit her key into the door, she turned around to wave.
He waved back, then got into his car and eased out onto the street.
Inside the house, she closed the door and leaned against it for
a moment. She’d wanted to be alone.
Now she didn’t.
But she walked in and dug out her phone before tossing her
purse on the sofa and sitting down next to it. She had to start returning
calls.
But even as she decided that she had to call her mother first
and then the board and her coworkers, the silence in the house seemed to weigh
down on her. She got up and turned on the television. A news station was
playing, with a reporter standing in front of the hospital. Mr. Dixon’s strange
fall into a coma was being added to the tragic news about musician and tour
guide Julian Mitchell.
She changed the channel. The speculation on the “evil” within
the house on news stations struck her as
overkill.
With a comedy repeat keeping her company, she looked at all the
calls she’d ignored while she was with Tyler Montague. She called her parents,
who’d gone to their home in Arizona for a few weeks, and made a point of being
calm and sad and completely in control. As much as she adored her mom and dad,
she didn’t want them coming back here because they were worried about her.
They’d met Julian a few times and offered their condolences,
but when they questioned her safety, she made it sound as if the media were
going wild—which they were—and described what had happened as a tragic accident.
She assured her mother that as a Revolution-era woman or even as Lucy Tarleton,
she didn’t carry a musket with a bayonet.
Next she spoke to Nathan Pierson. She told him she was fine,
and he promised he’d be there for anything she needed with the police or the
house. He’d talk to the rest of the board, too. She didn’t have to call anyone
else, he said; she should just relax.
Nathan was the easiest member of board to deal with. He was a
good-looking man who had never married. She wasn’t close enough to ask him if
there was a long-lost love for whom he pined, but if so, it didn’t seem to
affect his dating life. At various functions, she’d seen him with different
women, all of them beautiful and elegant. He was unfailingly polite and
courteous to her. Sometimes he
her face.
“You’ll need my number,” he reminded her.
“Oh. Yes.” She gave a deep sigh. “I do want to help the kids. I
do want to help you, even though it did look like a horrible accident.” Allison
took out her cell phone as she spoke.
“The trashing of the attic wasn’t an accident.” He removed his
phone from his pocket. “I’ll dial you,” he said.
He already had her number. Of course. He was an FBI agent.
She clicked on the call and added his number to her phone. Then
she realized she’d asked to be taken home and they’d arrived, but she was still
sitting in his car.
“I’m not sure what I can do for you,” she told him. “You’re
here, Mr. Harrison is here, the police have been through it all. I don’t know
what I could contribute.”
“I doubt that anyone is as familiar with the house or its
history as you are.” She caught herself studying the color of his eyes. They
were a mixture of blue and green, a kind of aqua she’d never seen before. He was
a very striking man.
She blinked, suddenly aware that she was staring and that she
needed to reply.
“There have been some tragic and
terrible incidents at the house, but I don’t think something that happened years
ago could have any bearing on what happened yesterday.”
He shrugged, smiling wryly. “That’s what we’ll find out.” He
exited the car and walked around to open her door.
She remembered that she was supposed to get out.
“Thanks,” she mumbled.
“Are you sure you’ll be right alone?”
“Yes, thanks. We’ll, um, be in touch.”
“Thank you,” he said with a nod.
Awkwardly, she started up her front walk. She knew he was
watching her, and when she fit her key into the door, she turned around to wave.
He waved back, then got into his car and eased out onto the street.
Inside the house, she closed the door and leaned against it for
a moment. She’d wanted to be alone.
Now she didn’t.
But she walked in and dug out her phone before tossing her
purse on the sofa and sitting down next to it. She had to start returning
calls.
But even as she decided that she had to call her mother first
and then the board and her coworkers, the silence in the house seemed to weigh
down on her. She got up and turned on the television. A news station was
playing, with a reporter standing in front of the hospital. Mr. Dixon’s strange
fall into a coma was being added to the tragic news about musician and tour
guide Julian Mitchell.
She changed the channel. The speculation on the “evil” within
the house on news stations struck her as
overkill.
With a comedy repeat keeping her company, she looked at all the
calls she’d ignored while she was with Tyler Montague. She called her parents,
who’d gone to their home in Arizona for a few weeks, and made a point of being
calm and sad and completely in control. As much as she adored her mom and dad,
she didn’t want them coming back here because they were worried about her.
They’d met Julian a few times and offered their condolences,
but when they questioned her safety, she made it sound as if the media were
going wild—which they were—and described what had happened as a tragic accident.
She assured her mother that as a Revolution-era woman or even as Lucy Tarleton,
she didn’t carry a musket with a bayonet.
Next she spoke to Nathan Pierson. She told him she was fine,
and he promised he’d be there for anything she needed with the police or the
house. He’d talk to the rest of the board, too. She didn’t have to call anyone
else, he said; she should just relax.
Nathan was the easiest member of board to deal with. He was a
good-looking man who had never married. She wasn’t close enough to ask him if
there was a long-lost love for whom he pined, but if so, it didn’t seem to
affect his dating life. At various functions, she’d seen him with different
women, all of them beautiful and elegant. He was unfailingly polite and
courteous to her. Sometimes he
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