Читать книгу Not a Moment Too Soon - Linda Johnston O. - Страница 7

Shauna O’Leary opened her eyes slowly. As she remained seated on her stiff desk chair, apprehension contracted her body into the same tight, quivering mass that it always did when she wrote something at her computer.

Most of the time, the tales that poured from her fingertips were fine, even delightful. Suitable for reading to the kids who came especially to her restaurant, Fantasy Fare, to hear them. She would laugh aloud as she read, in relief as much as enjoyment. Chastise herself gaily, push the print button and—

As she automatically began to scan the words on the screen, she gasped aloud. This was one of those rare, yet nevertheless too-frequent, other times.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, though no one else was there, in her small, secluded home, to hear. “Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no.” She repeated the words in a mantra born of despair as she continued to read:

Andee was scared. So scared. “Daddy,” she cried.

But Daddy didn’t come. Instead, the bad man came back into the room.

“Help me, Daddy!”

Shauna stared at the hand clutching the computer’s mouse as if it belonged to someone else. The long, slim fingers with blunted, pink-polished nails—fingers that were so skilled on the computer keys—were trembling. Resolutely, she highlighted the entire file, prepared to push Delete. Get rid of it.

But that wouldn’t get rid of the problem.

She did it nevertheless. Erased everything. Closed the file.

Opened it again.

The story was still there. Of course.

With a small moaning sound, she pushed Print.

There would be a physical record of what had already been set into motion.

Shauna took two long, deep breaths, steeling herself for what was to come. Anxiously running fingers through the sides of her long, ash-blond hair, she looked at the telephone beside her computer. It sat on the antique door that had been taken from her grandmother’s house and was now propped on wooden file cabinets, serving as her desk.

She studied the phone, delaying the inevitable.

And then, filled with dread, she lifted the portable receiver and pressed in a familiar number. Elayne Strahm’s. She needed to speak with her immediately. Get another phone number from her.

For the little girl in her story was Elayne’s grandchild.

Hunter Strahm’s daughter.