Jenna Ryan - A Voice in the Dark

“Stay where you are,” he repeated.

“Yes, I got that part. I thought you’d like to know what the note said.”

“I was getting to it.” But he sounded distracted which probably meant he was searching again. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”

She unhooked and lowered the blind, didn’t need to see the words to recall them. “It said: THE CIRCLE OF UNDERSTANDING WILL BE COMPLETE AT LAST. He stenciled it on a scrap of yellow newsprint, the kind you use for notes in college.” She heard boots on the stair treads and added, “I went through the basement, too.”

“Did I mention the part about humoring me?”

“Did I mention the part about not telling Bergman?”

“Can’t hear you, Angel. Bad reception.”

“That’s not very original.” When he didn’t respond, she sighed, “Come on, Noah.”

Only silence reached her.

She debated for a moment, then shrugged and dropped the phone in the pocket of her pants. “In that case, ditto.” Pulling on her coat and boots, she picked up her gun, motioned to Moscow and slipped into the hall’s period lighting, glowing and romantic, perfect for a nineteenth-century mansion.

But the shadows that might have been deemed intimate in their day created a much less appealing atmosphere right now. Angel angled her gun toward the coffered ceiling as she started down the stairs.

Because the first-floor neighbors were abnormally nosy, she knew all the creaks and how to avoid them. Moscow padded ahead of her. Angel retrieved her cell and brought it to her ear.

“Noah, are you there?”

No answer.

Had the communication really broken up? Builders had added a layer of concrete between the first floor and cellar. It was possible, she supposed, if a little too convenient.

“Noah?”

Still no response.

“Don’t think I’m liking this, Moscow. Be very quiet.”

The dog’s ears twitched, but he obeyed.

The shadows deepened on the first floor, because, of course, no one had bothered to replace the burned out light near the basement door.

“Noah?” She called his name, first into her cell and again down the narrow cellar stairwell.

The single shaft of light trickling upward didn’t quite reach the top. Use the main switch, or take a chance and creep down in the semidarkness? Either way, she could wind up shot.

She opted to creep, on the off chance that the killer was still lurking. Noah would be too well trained to shoot first and ask questions later. She hoped.

“Behind me, Moscow.”

She made one last attempt to raise Noah on her cell. When he didn’t answer, she disconnected. Liz might be trying to call her, although she hadn’t noticed a vibration from her caller alert. Maybe Joe had taken his wife out for a late dinner.

She counted down fourteen steps, used her free hand for balance on the wall and kept her gun up.

Moscow gave a prolonged growl—not a promising sign.

“Stay back,” she ordered, then peered into the gloom. “Noah?”

Eyes moving, she sketched the layout. Bike room dead ahead, furnace room to the left, storage right. The cellar smelled of old earth, old bricks and centuries’ old wood. But strangely, the faint scent of apples superceded all those things in Angel’s mind, and gave the place a sense of nostalgia that took her back to her grandmother’s Iowa root cellar.

She’d played hidden ghost there with her cousins several times as a child—until nasty cousin Billy had grabbed her ankle from under the stairs and almost given her a coronary.

Moscow growled again. Angel accepted the shiver that rippled along her spine. Had the darkness shifted?

The growl became a barely muffled bark. The dog’s muscles bunched against her thigh. Setting a hand on his head, she stilled him.

She felt it, too. Something about the air had altered. She made a cautious half circle, saw nothing. But there was a sound. A movement. A faint swish of motion that bordered on invisible.

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