Читать книгу Dorian Gray - John Garavaglia - Страница 21

an intruder who suspected he’d been discovered and was trying to avoid detection.

“Somebody there?” Basil said, looking behind the painting and then around the room. “Parker, is that you?”

He should just be calling for assistance, but something stopped him. It wasn’t just that the laughter had ceased. There was a palpable sense of emptiness.

He peered around the corner cautiously, aware that there could be some lunatic standing to the side, ready to stab him in the back.

But there was no one. The room was empty. The only thing staring back at him were the various paintings, and they obviously weren’t posing any threat.

Basil took a deep breath, walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink. He was alarmed by how much his hands were shaking.

“You really care about that boy, don’t you?”

Basil whirled, the sudden realization that he wasn’t alone. Sweat was rolling off him in buckets. The glass was wobbling in his hand, the brandy slopping over the edges.

The voice was mirthful and otherworldly, and it chilled high to the bone, especially in the informal tone it was taking, as if the intruder and Basil were old friends. He stumbled to the middle of the room, spinning in place, trying to see everywhere in the room at once.

“Who said that?!” He demanded.

JOHN GRAVAGLIA

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