The Stranger by Mark Ayre (books you need to read TXT) 📗

where she was, watching him trudge up the drive to the front door. Watching him let himself in and disappear. Only when she saw the light come on in a bedroom on the top floor of the three-story terrace did she start the car and drive away.

Once bitten, twice shy.

It was nearing eleven. Abbie still had a little time to kill before meeting Eddie. Some of it, she would use to try to relax. First, something a little more critical.

No one was manning the hotel’s reception this evening. Abbie swept past the counter and head upstairs. Passing the second room she had paid for and which she only had for one night, she moved to the room where Danny had died. This one she had also paid for, for last night and tonight. Technically, it was still hers.

The police tape was gone, but they would have asked Glenda to leave it empty at least for tonight, and the chances of anyone getting it tomorrow were also slim. As the cops had already been over the room with a fine-tooth comb, they were unlikely to return and would not conduct another thorough search if they did.

With impressive speed and almost no noise, Abbie picked the lock, entered the room, and behind her closed the door.

Maybe it would be longer before someone new slept in here. The police offered an investigative rather than a deep cleaning service. The drops of blood by the door, the chair, the curtains, had faded. From the floor beside the bed, the police had been courteous enough to remove Danny’s body. The carpet here was ruined. A deep clean might solve the problem. More likely, it would need replacing.

Though Abbie hadn’t killed Danny, he would not have died here if not for her. Before she left town for good, she would try to offer Glenda some money towards the new carpet, which she hoped the kind landlady would take.

Such concerns were for later. From the drawstring bag over her shoulder, Abbie removed the black book Travis had stolen. Opening it, she flicked through the pages. The first five comprised lists of names, as did the final forty. The pages between these two points were blank. Why did she write down those names? Did it indicate some sort of self-destructive desire? Maybe. Now was not the time to consider how she might compensate Glenda for her ruined carpet, nor for self-examination.

Important was confirmation Travis had torn no pages from the spine. He hadn’t. He might have photographed the contents, but Abbie doubted it. Nor was that something to worry about now.

The desk on which sat the telly, and behind which sat a chair, ran from the built-in wardrobe by the door to the far wall. Beneath the desk, against the wardrobe, was a chest of drawers. Connected to the desk’s surface from beneath, it hung an inch off the floor. If someone came into the room searching for a hidden item, they would before long be drawn to this space. Abbie didn’t expect anyone to return to the room before she did. If anyone came, it would be to clean or to examine the state of the carpet. In neither scenario would this person search under the fixed chest of drawers.

Dropping to her knees, Abbie placed the black book on the floor and slid it beneath the chest of drawers. Far enough that it would not be seen unless someone lay on the floor with a torch.

Rising, Abbie felt uncomfortable not having the book with her. But she was nervous. As she approached day two, she approached the end game. If she was captured by Francis or arrested, she did not want that book on her.

If it had fit, Abbie would have also slid The Strand beneath the chest of drawers. If she was captured or arrested, neither Francis nor the police would have the slightest interest in the Stephen King novel. If anyone took it from the bag, she would have to hope they were careful. While it made her uncomfortable, it was the best she could do.

Leaving the room where Danny had died, Abbie returned to her own and sat at the desk. From her car, she had removed a second black book, this one empty. On her phone, Abbie found Wikipedia, found the page she needed. With a pen, she began to write in the second black book.

By the time she was done, it was 11.10. In half an hour, she would leave and meet Eddie, at which point he would tell her everything she needed to know to save his life.

Whether he liked it or not.

Twenty-Two

One of the first things Abbie had done on 16th January 2021 was cross a street she had never before walked, duck into a darkened tunnel between two office blocks, and arrive in a carpark where fought two brothers.

One of the final things she did on 16th January 2021 was cross that same street, duck into that same tunnel, and appear in that same carpark.

This time only one brother was present. The other being dead. Abbie was eight minutes early. Eddie even earlier than that.

Solemn, miserable, shaking, Eddie met her eye when she appeared but did not immediately speak. Wanting to let him make the first move, Abbie waited.

“I know who has the money,” he said at last.

“So do I,” said Abbie, that need to show off once more rearing its head, causing her problems.

Eddie raised his eyebrows.

“It’s Leona, isn’t it?”

Eddie looked away, then into the tunnel. Perhaps he was thinking about the last significant interaction he had ever had and would ever have with his brother. The argument, the fight. All that bad feeling.

“Yeah, well done,” he said. “But do you know where she’s keeping it?”

“No.”

“I do.”

By twenty past midnight, Abbie and Eddie had reached a quiet and modest residential area on the outskirts of town. Winding through silent, darkened streets, they made their way to a road comprised of a