Read Online Triple Exposure by Colleen Thompson - Free Book Online
Authors: Colleen Thompson
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guide an invasion. During World War II pilots training at the nearby Midland Army Air Field outside Marfa looked for the source of the elusive lights from the air, again with no success.
—Julia Cauble Smith, from The Handbook of Texas Online
Friday, February 15
Startled by the ringing telephone, Rachel jerked out of a sound sleep to both darkness and confusion. By the second ring, she remembered she was in the tiny rental casita, her temporary home. Just two days before, her dad had gotten her this cell phone, and so far as she knew, he was the only person who had the new number.
Something’s wrong with Grandma …Rachel fumbled until she found the phone where she had left it on the night-stand, beside the glowing red numbers that read 4:18. With her thoughts focused on her family, she didn’t even glance at the caller ID window before she answered.
“Dad? Is something—”
“I know where you are, killer. Murderess. ” The woman’s voice formed a fragile skin of hatred over an icy lake of malice.
Not again, not here, too. Rachel’s eyes stung with frustration. The woman sounded different this time, raspier and more unbalanced than she had when the calls had started, back during the trial in Philadelphia. Was this even the same person? It must be, for Rachel’s most persistent—and frustratingly anonymous—tormentor had a knack for getting private numbers. Still, how had she found this one so damned quickly?
“You are one sick bitch,” Rachel snapped, her fury outrunning her better judgment. Responding to this nut case only encouraged her. “Get some help and get a life.”
“I have one, but you won’t soon. Because I’m coming for you, Raaaachel. You can’t run far enough or fast enough. I’ll always know where you hide—”
Rachel’s trembling fingers found and pushed the power button. From hard experience, she’d learned this was the only way to stop the harrassment. If she simply hung up, Psycho Bitch would merely hit redial and start back up where she’d left off. Invariably, the woman blocked her number, and the phone company’s attempts to trace her hadn’t helped, since she was using—and frequently changing—disposable, prepaid cell phones.
As Rachel burrowed deep beneath her covers, her pulse pounded and her ears strained for the slightest sound. And not just any sound, but those that ruled her nightmares: the turning of the closet doorknob, the quiet footsteps of an intruder who had stripped off all his clothing and hidden there in darkness until he’d thought she was asleep. The casita might be chilly, but she felt sweat trickling from her temples. Despite the fact that she had checked and rechecked both the closet and the door’s locks earlier, she could almost swear she heard the quick scrape of someone’s breathing— Kyle’s breathing —and see the featureless, blacksilhouette looming above her that last instant before she reached the gun.
Flinging back the blankets, Rachel rubbed her prickling arms and clicked on the bedside lamp. As light flooded the two-room cottage, she peered at the closet door she had left open—and sighed to see that it was empty of all but her clothing and her fears. Even so, it infuriated her, that one whacko hounding her from Pennsylvania had so much power over her that she had had to look.
Like mother, like son, Rachel couldn’t help suspecting. For the longest time, she had blamed a few unbalanced fans of Kyle’s mother, a popular news anchor and Philadelphia morning talk show host, for taking it upon themselves to avenge the famously personable blonde’s all-too-public grief. Most of the callers had admitted that much, but this woman, this incredibly persistent head case…could the Psycho Bitch be Mrs. Underwood herself?
Heaven only knew the woman had been rocked off her foundation. Rachel had sympathized with the tearful breakdown that had been played and replayed on the news, had even tried to reach out to tell the
—Julia Cauble Smith, from The Handbook of Texas Online
Friday, February 15
Startled by the ringing telephone, Rachel jerked out of a sound sleep to both darkness and confusion. By the second ring, she remembered she was in the tiny rental casita, her temporary home. Just two days before, her dad had gotten her this cell phone, and so far as she knew, he was the only person who had the new number.
Something’s wrong with Grandma …Rachel fumbled until she found the phone where she had left it on the night-stand, beside the glowing red numbers that read 4:18. With her thoughts focused on her family, she didn’t even glance at the caller ID window before she answered.
“Dad? Is something—”
“I know where you are, killer. Murderess. ” The woman’s voice formed a fragile skin of hatred over an icy lake of malice.
Not again, not here, too. Rachel’s eyes stung with frustration. The woman sounded different this time, raspier and more unbalanced than she had when the calls had started, back during the trial in Philadelphia. Was this even the same person? It must be, for Rachel’s most persistent—and frustratingly anonymous—tormentor had a knack for getting private numbers. Still, how had she found this one so damned quickly?
“You are one sick bitch,” Rachel snapped, her fury outrunning her better judgment. Responding to this nut case only encouraged her. “Get some help and get a life.”
“I have one, but you won’t soon. Because I’m coming for you, Raaaachel. You can’t run far enough or fast enough. I’ll always know where you hide—”
Rachel’s trembling fingers found and pushed the power button. From hard experience, she’d learned this was the only way to stop the harrassment. If she simply hung up, Psycho Bitch would merely hit redial and start back up where she’d left off. Invariably, the woman blocked her number, and the phone company’s attempts to trace her hadn’t helped, since she was using—and frequently changing—disposable, prepaid cell phones.
As Rachel burrowed deep beneath her covers, her pulse pounded and her ears strained for the slightest sound. And not just any sound, but those that ruled her nightmares: the turning of the closet doorknob, the quiet footsteps of an intruder who had stripped off all his clothing and hidden there in darkness until he’d thought she was asleep. The casita might be chilly, but she felt sweat trickling from her temples. Despite the fact that she had checked and rechecked both the closet and the door’s locks earlier, she could almost swear she heard the quick scrape of someone’s breathing— Kyle’s breathing —and see the featureless, blacksilhouette looming above her that last instant before she reached the gun.
Flinging back the blankets, Rachel rubbed her prickling arms and clicked on the bedside lamp. As light flooded the two-room cottage, she peered at the closet door she had left open—and sighed to see that it was empty of all but her clothing and her fears. Even so, it infuriated her, that one whacko hounding her from Pennsylvania had so much power over her that she had had to look.
Like mother, like son, Rachel couldn’t help suspecting. For the longest time, she had blamed a few unbalanced fans of Kyle’s mother, a popular news anchor and Philadelphia morning talk show host, for taking it upon themselves to avenge the famously personable blonde’s all-too-public grief. Most of the callers had admitted that much, but this woman, this incredibly persistent head case…could the Psycho Bitch be Mrs. Underwood herself?
Heaven only knew the woman had been rocked off her foundation. Rachel had sympathized with the tearful breakdown that had been played and replayed on the news, had even tried to reach out to tell the
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