Page 89 of The Executioners Three
The room’s phone rang. Mrs. Ferris ripped up the receiver by her bed. “Hello, Rita!” she cried, pinning Freddie with a fierce glare. “Oh, you’re at the front desk? I’m glad you called up, so I can make myself decent. Yes, I’ll see you soon.”
She slammed down the phone.“Go,”she snarled, and this time, Freddie didn’t hesitate. She spun on her heel and bolted from the room. Thendown the hall and into the waiting area—where the elevator was already dinging.
No time, no time.The doors slid wide.
Freddie dove behind a potted plant. She wastotallyvisible, and her breath came in punctuated gasps. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t risk finding a better spot, because there was Sheriff Bowman right there, strutting out of the elevator.
Don’t see me,Freddie prayed.Don’t see me, don’t see me.
Sheriff Bowman didn’t see her. She was distracted, running her hands through her hair and even muttering to herself as she stalked across the waiting room. Then she was past, and Freddie made her move, quiet as a panther.
She charged for the still-open elevator doors, lurching inside right as they began to close. Pulse plodding in her ears, she waited for the door to finish closing. For the elevator to jerk into a noisy descent.
What the heck had just happened? And what theheckwas Freddie supposed to do about it all? Mrs. Ferris had acted as if Sheriff Bowman—her own daughter—couldn’t be trusted. Like she was dangerous even.
Have you considered the possibility,Divya had said,that maybe Sheriff Bowman is the one who moved the water bottle?
Freddie gulped, her throat thick. “It started with Rita’s brother,” Freddie whispered to herself, repeating what Mrs. Ferris had said. “And a bell no one else could hear.” Always, always, everything came back to a bell. A bell that Freddie couldn’t find but that she’d heard ringing on two different nights now.
Freddie was shivering by the time she reached the sliding doors outside of the hospital. Not from cold, but from adrenaline. And maybe a little fear too—after all, was she really about to do this? Was she really going to bust into Mrs. Ferris’s house and find a secret room hidden in the attic?
It seemed that yes… Yes, she was. How Nancy Drew of her. How Fox Mulder too.
By the time Freddie unchained her bike, she was shivering from actual cold. She sorely regretted forgetting her jacket at Divya’s, but like mosquito bites and fear, there was nothing to do but scratch at the shivers until they went away.
So after checking that Xena was still secure around her neck, Freddie kicked off into the freezing wind.
Snow still fell.
Mrs. Ferris’s house was only a block from Freddie’s, so she decided to leave Steve’s bike in the garage and trek the final distance on foot. It just seemed wiser for sneaking purposes.
A quick jog carried her across the street, where she cut between the Hansens’ and the Chos’, then a brief stretch of woods led her to Mrs. Ferris’s backyard. Surrounded by a high wooden fence, the yard was mostly just patio and potted plants (that didn’t look too good in this weather).
The gate wasn’t locked, and although Freddie’s teeth were chattering when she slunk inside, she scarcely noticed. Her heart boomed too loudly in her ears, her throat felt like sandpaper, and every nerve in her body was on fire. Sure, Mrs. Ferris might havetoldFreddie to come here, but Mrs. Ferris had also made it clear that if Sheriff Bowman found her, very bad things would ensue.
Things worse than a mere arrest for trespassing.
Freddie found the basil easily enough, and as promised, a rusty key waited beneath. With a furtive glance around, she unlocked the back door and shoved inside.
The first thing she noticed was the warmth (thank god), followed quickly by the smell. Like apples and cinnamon.
Once Freddie’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she found herself in an old kitchencrammedwith jars of jam. Like, there must have been at least a hundred of them on every available surface.Because of course,Freddie thought.Mrs. Ferris is getting ready for the fête.She always had a booth to sell her jams and fruit preserves—and she always sold out.
The next thing Freddie noticed was a letter affixed to the fridge. It had a bright sunburst magnet that stood out in the dark, and after locking the door behind her—then deadbolting it for good measure—Freddie crept over. Under the magnet was a letter with a pink Post-it stuck to the top.
I’ll see you soon, Grandma,the Post-it read in a sloping scrawl.Love, Theo.
Freddie couldn’t help but smile at that. Then she peeled up the Post-it and scanned the paper below. It was an acceptance letter from Allard Fortin Preparatory School, dated April of this year. They were pleased to inform Mr. Theodore Porter that he had been accepted into their prestigious journalism program, and that his financial aid application had been accepted. He would have full room, board, and tuition covered for the 1999–2000 school year.
As Freddie read this, as she ran her finger down the letter, sadness wefted through her muscles.I was in the journalism program,Theo had said that very morning, before quickly correcting to,Iamin the journalism program.
Freddie had to wonder if he’d been kicked out.
Which must have beenherfault.
She shook her head. She wasn’t here for Theo. She was here for answers in the attic.
Freddie traced her way out of the kitchen, giving it one more glance before she left. But other than a yellow raincoat on a hook by the door, nothing caught her eye. So into the living room she wandered. Here, every surface was crowded with knickknacks, framed family photos, and an uncomfortable number of Precious Moments figurines.
