Read Online The Other Side of Midnight by Simone St. James - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Simone St. James
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sighed and tugged my hat back on, wishing for a cigarette or a swig from the flask in my handbag. Something about this building was tiring and oppressive, like a funeral home, and for a moment I was painfully aware that I was alone, foolishly embarking on a quest that was doomed to fail. How could I hope to find Gloria’s murderer on my own? I thought wistfully of what it would be like to have a companion, someone to talk to, someone who could help me pin down the frantic thoughts spinning through my mind. I saw James Hawley’s gray-blue eyes. He hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring. I pushed the thought away, disgusted that I’d even noticed.
On impulse, I decided to take the lift instead of the stairs to the fourth floor, though I regretted it the moment the diamond-grille door slid closed and I stood in the semidarkness, my hand on the lever. The lift shuddered reluctantly to life. The smell was even mustier in here, and the floor of the lift shook under my feet. I could have walked twenty stories in the time it took to rise four, or so it felt, andwhen the lift finally groaned to a stop, I flung back the sliding door and came gasping out into the corridor.
Only three doors opened from this hall. All were closed and silent. A single mullioned window shed the only light that came through, the sunlight far off and diluted by the clouds moving overhead, sending the light into eerie fragments that made me feel as if I was underwater.
I approached the door of 4-A and raised my hand to knock. Something stopped me for a moment—the absolute silence, perhaps, or a faint unidentifiable smell. But I shook off my misgivings and rapped on the door, once, twice, the sound muffled by the stale air.
There was no answer, and unlike at Davies’s flat I heard no shuffled movements inside. I rapped again.
She’s not here,
I thought, and then, unbidden:
She’s dead. Someone killed her, and she’s lying dead in there.
The thought stopped me. Suddenly I could picture it, not through my powers, but through my overactive imagination. I could see a body splayed on the floor, arms sprawled, the bare feet strangely helpless, the back arched by the body’s last desperate attempt to grab something, to rise. And the stillness, the clock ticking unheeded, the slow seeping of blood onto the floor.
My headache throbbed. I took one step back, and then another, and then I was descending the stairs, my heels clicking crisply on the risers. My pace quickened as I passed landing after landing. I saw and heard no one. The dust floated undisturbed in the beams of sunlight coming through the windows on the landings.
Finally I stepped out the front door onto the stoop, gulping the fresh September air. I was a superstitious fool. The woman had been out, that was all, shopping or visiting a friend. A practicing psychic might have been home seeing clients, but not if business was bad. I’d never had the power to see through closed doors; what I’d seen was imagination, nothing more.
A man stood on the front path waiting for me. I froze, taking in the familiar figure in dark suit and hat. James.
He reached up to the brim of his hat, tilting it back to get a better look at me. As always, he was in no hurry, as if he’d been standing there all day. His muscled shoulders were incongruous under the lines of his jacket.
“Trying to have your fortune told?” he said.
“Yes, of course,” I managed. “That’s very clever.”
He glanced past my shoulder. “I take it Ramona wasn’t home.”
There was no point in lying. “No, she wasn’t.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “Apparently she was there the night Gloria died.” I took a step down, coming closer to him. “What do you know about her? Why are you here?”
“A lucky guess.” He looked at me, curious. “Is something wrong?”
“No, of course not.” I would rather die than admit how relieved I was to see him, to see anyone. “Everything is
On impulse, I decided to take the lift instead of the stairs to the fourth floor, though I regretted it the moment the diamond-grille door slid closed and I stood in the semidarkness, my hand on the lever. The lift shuddered reluctantly to life. The smell was even mustier in here, and the floor of the lift shook under my feet. I could have walked twenty stories in the time it took to rise four, or so it felt, andwhen the lift finally groaned to a stop, I flung back the sliding door and came gasping out into the corridor.
Only three doors opened from this hall. All were closed and silent. A single mullioned window shed the only light that came through, the sunlight far off and diluted by the clouds moving overhead, sending the light into eerie fragments that made me feel as if I was underwater.
I approached the door of 4-A and raised my hand to knock. Something stopped me for a moment—the absolute silence, perhaps, or a faint unidentifiable smell. But I shook off my misgivings and rapped on the door, once, twice, the sound muffled by the stale air.
There was no answer, and unlike at Davies’s flat I heard no shuffled movements inside. I rapped again.
She’s not here,
I thought, and then, unbidden:
She’s dead. Someone killed her, and she’s lying dead in there.
The thought stopped me. Suddenly I could picture it, not through my powers, but through my overactive imagination. I could see a body splayed on the floor, arms sprawled, the bare feet strangely helpless, the back arched by the body’s last desperate attempt to grab something, to rise. And the stillness, the clock ticking unheeded, the slow seeping of blood onto the floor.
My headache throbbed. I took one step back, and then another, and then I was descending the stairs, my heels clicking crisply on the risers. My pace quickened as I passed landing after landing. I saw and heard no one. The dust floated undisturbed in the beams of sunlight coming through the windows on the landings.
Finally I stepped out the front door onto the stoop, gulping the fresh September air. I was a superstitious fool. The woman had been out, that was all, shopping or visiting a friend. A practicing psychic might have been home seeing clients, but not if business was bad. I’d never had the power to see through closed doors; what I’d seen was imagination, nothing more.
A man stood on the front path waiting for me. I froze, taking in the familiar figure in dark suit and hat. James.
He reached up to the brim of his hat, tilting it back to get a better look at me. As always, he was in no hurry, as if he’d been standing there all day. His muscled shoulders were incongruous under the lines of his jacket.
“Trying to have your fortune told?” he said.
“Yes, of course,” I managed. “That’s very clever.”
He glanced past my shoulder. “I take it Ramona wasn’t home.”
There was no point in lying. “No, she wasn’t.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “Apparently she was there the night Gloria died.” I took a step down, coming closer to him. “What do you know about her? Why are you here?”
“A lucky guess.” He looked at me, curious. “Is something wrong?”
“No, of course not.” I would rather die than admit how relieved I was to see him, to see anyone. “Everything is
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