Читать книгу Watching For Willa - Helen Myers R. - Страница 11

Willa nibbled at the rim of her cup. “Promise not to laugh?”

“There’s nothing funny about tear gas.”

“Okay, then don’t blow what I say out of proportion, either.”

Starla rested an elbow on the banister. “That’s not a reassuring way to start this conversation, boss dear. I’m the one who’s supposed to take the long route to get to the point. You’re the one who’s always known your own mind—along with everyone else’s.”

The compliment was nice to hear, despite her doubts about its current accuracy. Willa took a deep breath. “Something’s happened that shook me up a bit.”

She proceeded to tell her friend about the note—for the moment preferring to leave out what had occurred the day before. As she feared, Starla went from concerned to upset.

“That’s too spooky. And I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this when we talked on the phone!” Starla’s expression matched her accusatory tone.

“How do you share something like that over the phone?”

“Well, okay. What did the police say?”

Now came the hard part. Willa glanced toward the dining room window, too late realizing what a reflexive move that was becoming. “I didn’t call them.”

As expected, Starla was aghast. “Why on earth not? There’s a creep out there who’s terrifying almost every woman in this town. You mean to tell me that note didn’t make you think of him?”

“You didn’t let me finish.” Only then did Willa realize she would share everything—or almost everything. Maybe, she decided, it was time to get someone else’s input. “Remember who I said I’ll be having as a neighbor?”

“Who could forget? I was about to ask you if—” Her assistant’s eyes went so wide, they could almost have been used as dual makeup mirrors. “You think…Zachary Denton?”

“I don’t know,” Willa admitted, knowing it would have sounded crazy to her if Starla had been the one presenting such a bombshell. Once again, feeling uncharacteristically unsure of herself, she took a sip of her wine.

“Willa, isn’t he completely disabled or something?”

“He uses a wheelchair, but he’s hardly disabled.” Images of Zachary Denton, flashbacks of his speed and strength, played out before her eyes, leaving her uncomfortably warm. She fingered the damp hairs at her nape that had slipped free of her ponytail. “His house is set up to accommodate the chair—there are ramps, and some electric gizmos. He even has an elevator. Believe me, getting around isn’t a problem for him.”