was dark except for the green glowing hands of the alarm clock. She had heard a sound, something more than the steady ticking of the clock. Lying still, her body tensed, she listened, waiting, scarcely breathing.
There was nothing but the rhythmic scratching of the branch on the windowpane.
Just as she was about to sink back into her dreams, Victoria heard the sound that had yanked her bolt upright out of sleep. An agonized, ear-splitting scream.
Victoria jumped out of bed and flung on her robe. She crept silently across the dark room. Trembling, she opened her bedroom door and peered out into the hall. Nothing but silence, darkness.
What do I do now? she wondered.
As she stood in the doorway, she heard the scuffling of slippers from the far end of the house. The hall light went on and Victoria blinked against the brightness as her eyes gradually focused on Maude Hewlett.
The robed woman scowled at Victoria and snapped, “What’s the matter?”
“I—I heard something,” said Victoria. “It sounded like a scream.”
“Naw,” grunted Maude. “It was them cats in the backyard. When they get going they sound like a bunch of banshees. Don’t worry. I shooed them away.”
“I see,” said Victoria, hesitating.
“Go on back to sleep,” Maude ordered.
Victoria slipped back into her room and shut the door. Even as she lay back down, she couldn’t quell the alarm she felt. It wasn’t a cat she had heard. The sound hadn’t come from the backyard. The terrible, flesh-crawling scream had broken from somewhere in the very soul of the Hewlett house.
At breakfast Victoria waited to see whether the Hewletts would mention the scream she had heard last night Neither Maude nor Sam said a word. Victoria decided not to bring up the subject, either. “Is the library near here?” she inquired as she finished her coffee.
“Coupla miles.” Sam snorted “On Pine Avenue, north of here.”
“More scrambled eggs?” asked Maude, offering Victoria the bowl.
“No thanks,” said Victoria. “But everything was delicious “
“You don’t eat enough to keep a flea alive,” scoffed Maude. “Our Julia was like that. Always on a diet. Always afraid of putting on a few pounds.”
“You mean the girl in the photograph?” asked Victoria, perking up
Maude nodded “Yeah. Our daughter. I told you that before.” She handed the bowl of eggs to Sam. “Here, you finish these No sense them going to waste.”
Victoria waited, hoping Maude would continue talking about her daughter. I need all the information I can get, she reflected, but I don’t dare probe. Asking questions will only arouse suspicion. But if Sam and Maude are the closemouthed types they appear to be, how will I ever find out what happened to my son?
“You gonna go work on that book of yours?” queried Sam
“What?” Victoria asked absently
“The library—you going there to write your book?”
“My thesis? No, I’m still in the research stage. I need to check out books written by the two authors, plus whatever has been published about them by other writers.”
“Sounds like a heap of work,” said Sam, swallowing a mouthful of coffee.
“Yes, it is,” Victoria agreed. “But I enjoy it” She stood and carefully replaced her chair. “I probably won’t be back until early this evening “
“Dinner’s at six sharp,” Maude reminded her.
“I’ll be here,” said Victoria. She returned to her room for her briefcase and sweater. As she passed back through the living room, she paused The Hewletts were still in the kitchen. Quietly she walked over to the television set and picked up the photograph of Julia and Joshua. With Maude always in the room, Victoria had given the picture only a cursory glance before. Alone now, she stared hard at the photo, hungrily memorizing every feature and angle of her son’s soft, pliant face. He was beautiful, with dreamy, vulnerable eyes and a gentle, trusting expression. Unruly, reddish-blond hair fell over his forehead and curled around his ears just as Victoria’s had done when she was a child. He had the same button nose, round, chipmunk cheeks and finely carved mouth she had at five There was no doubt about it: This was her son.
Sudden tears filled her eyes and a painful lump formed in her throat. All of the unspoken yearnings of seven long years threatened to surface. Victoria blinked quickly and replaced the photograph, but not before her eye caught a glimpse of Maude in the kitchen doorway. The woman’s expression was cold, cryptic, severe; her lips remained tightly pursed.
“I was just looking at your daughter’s portrait,” Victoria stammered as she moved awkwardly toward the door.
“Dinner’s at six sharp,” Maude answered, her tone unmistakably menacing.
Victoria was grateful for the vast anonymity of the public library. Here she could relax and be herself, without being on guard for every deed or word. For her, research was always an invigorating mental exercise. It did for her mind what she imagined jogging accomplished physically for Phillip, who had once mentioned he loved to run.
If Victoria admitted it, delving into the lives of Flannery O’Connor and Sylvia Plath gave her an opportunity to forget herself and her own problems. Their very different, difficult lives reminded Victoria she had no room for complaint about her own lot.
Victoria’s hours of study passed quickly. At five she returned to the Hewlett home with an armload of books. Sam opened the door to her and whistled appraisingly. “You actually going to read all those, Miss Clarkin?”
“Victoria,” she puffed. “Please call me Victoria.”
“Long as you call me Sam.”
“I’d be pleased to, Sam.” She adjusted her load. “I’m going to put these in my room and freshen up a little. Then I’ll help Mrs. Hewlett with dinner.”
“Don’t bother,” said Sam. “She don’t like no one else puttering in her kitchen. Just be at the table at six—”
“Sharp,” Victoria finished with an amused smile.
Sam flashed a crooked grin. “You learn fast, girl.” He followed her to her room and opened the door for her.
“Thanks.” She sighed and closed the door behind her. She dropped her bundle of books on the dresser, then sank down wearily on her bed. Aloud she murmured, “Even if I never find my son, this little adventure is forcing me to dig into my thesis and get it done. Whatever happens, the summer won’t be wasted.”
She returned to the dresser, removed her pendant necklace and gently laid it in the velvet jewelry box her mother had given her. She looked again curiously. Her jewelry was in disarray. Was I in that much of a hurry this morning? she wondered. Usually I keep everything so neat.
An uneasy feeling crept over her. She opened her dresser drawers, one after another, surveying each one. Nothing seemed to be missing, but somehow she sensed that things weren’t exactly as she had left them.
Someone’s been in this room, she thought with a shudder. There’s no lock on the door, no way of keeping the Hewletts out. But what were they looking for? And what did they find?
She thought suddenly of her journal. If they read that, they would know everything! She ran to her bed and reached under the mattress where she had tucked the journal after writing in it this morning. Thank heavens, it was still there—and she had remembered to lock it. She reached for her purse and checked