Книга Monday Mourning — читать онлайн бесплатно полностью

Was Anne inside!

Darting to the stoop, I grabbed my jacket, rushed back, squatted, and wrapped Tawny. Sleet ticked and bounced off the nylon.

“Did you see another woman in the house?”

Tawny continued rocking and sobbing.

I gripped her shoulders and repeated my question.

Tawny nodded.

“Where?”

The bony shoulders trembled.

“Where?” I screamed.

“F-floor.”

“What room?”

She looked up, mute.

“The room, Tawny. What room?”

I shook her, repeated my question.

“B-b-back. Basement. I don’t kn-know.” Ash speckled her face.

As I stood motionless, undecided, the acrid smell of burning slammed my nostrils, and the size of the orange glow increased.

Anne didn’t have time for 911! I had to go back!

But I was soaked in gasoline.

With shaking fingers, I unlaced and yanked off my boots, stripped to my undies, then shoved my feet back into the boots. After wetting my cushion cover with snow, I dashed back to the house, head a vortex of pain. At the open door, I dropped to a squat and duck-walked into the smoke.

Stumbling to the armchair, I snatched Tawny’s blanket, draped my shoulders, and groped my way toward the back of the house.

Again, I tried to recall the layout of the back hall. This time my tortured brain warped up a floor plan. Kitchen to the left. Parlor to the right, study or bedroom beyond. Basement stairs descending from a bedroom straight ahead.

Though flame-free, the hallway was dense with smoke. I felt my way blindly, chest and throat tormented.

My hamstrings screamed in protest. Now and then I winged an elbow or banged a shin. I blundered on, one hand extended, the other clamped to my mouth. I thought only of Anne.

Then my outstretched hand slammed something hard. My stomach lurched. I tasted bile.

I flattened my palm on the door. The wood felt warm. I moved it up. Warmer.

Please! No!

I touched the knob. Hot. I turned it, inched open a peephole.

Flames twisted from the bed and curled the drapes at the back of the room.

I flung the door wide.

“Anne!”

The shape didn’t move.

“Annie!”

Nothing.

Tossing aside my swatch of fabric, I crawled to Anne, pulled the blanket from my shoulders, and folded it lengthwise in layers beside her.

When I sat back, pain exploded in my head. I forced the throbbing to the basement of my skull.

Mustering my dwindling reserves, I rolled Anne onto the blanket, dug beneath her, and pulled an edge.