PROLOGUE
October 1971—One year before the Open House
(at the end of The Patience of a Dead Man, Book One)
Tim Russell banged his palm against the steering wheel in frustration—he’d forgotten his wallet. He wondered for a second if he really needed it before tomorrow, then looked at the gas gauge—near empty. Not even enough gas to make it to Holly’s house in Laconia. He stepped on the brake and pulled over to the side of the dirt road to make a U-turn, then hesitated.
It shouldn’t be a problem—to simply turn around, drive the quarter-mile back, walk into the house and retrieve the wallet—but it was undeniably harrowing even though their struggles with the murderous Mildred Wells were over. They’d beaten her, and she’d been taken away weeks ago, but even so, Tim’s stress level was off the charts as he worked alone each day, watching over his shoulder, restoring the old house as fast as he possibly could.
He looked back before making the turn, his heart picking back up to the level it had maintained the entire day. Here I go–I’m going back in, he thought, as he postponed thoughts of the cold beer waiting for him at the convenience store a mile down the road. Best to hit and run. He stepped on the gas and made the turn, never taking his eyes off of the house and, more specifically, the turret, his designated office space during the reconstruction–the room where he’d left his wallet.
In seconds he was inside the front porch, opening the front door, faking as though there was nothing to be afraid of. Once inside, he noticed that it seemed very dark in the kitchen. It was late May, and the longest day of the year would be here in less than a month. Sunset should be at around 8 pm today, with the twilight keeping things well lit for another half-hour at least. Strange. He turned to look out the kitchen window.
It was pitch black outside, and his truck was already gone.
In a panic, he spun for the porch, deep down, becoming aware that forgetting his wallet was the greatest mistake of his life. The smell hit him right then, and he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it sooner. The front door was closed and locked, even though he’d left it open on purpose. He grabbed the knob and began to work it when three flies landed on his hand and wrist. No. She must be close. Tim turned to the dark dining room to protect his back. Mildred Wells stood in the far corner, motionless.
