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Open Water

By Betty Thomason Owens

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Something wasn’t right. I watched Thurston Doyle
through narrowed eyes. Was he always so fidgety?
To quell my anxiety, I massaged the back of my
neck. Maybe I should cut this interview short. Real short.
Why had I agreed to do this? Lisa’s face came to mind.
Lisa Oliver, who held my heart and my promise to her—to
find out who had murdered her parents.
When FBI Special Agent Zach Farrow approached me
in St. Louis, one of the stops on my publicity tour, how
could I say no? My next event was in Chicago, so Mt.
Morris wasn’t that far out of my way.
He’d appealed to my vanity. “We’ve hit a wall on this
one, Jake. You have a way with people. Maybe you can get
S
the man to talk.”
And then maybe we’d be even. Or not. This wasn’t the
first time he’d asked for my help, and it probably wouldn’t
be the last. I refocused on Doyle as the man continued to
hem and haw and sputter about nothing.
I pocketed my notepad and pen and sat forward,
ready to call it a day. Before I could open my mouth and
announce my intentions, multiple car doors slammed
outside.
Thurston jerked his bald head up, peering out the
window. “You got to go.”
I stood. “Yes, I …”
He pushed up from his chair so fast he almost toppled
over. “Not that way.” He pointed a bent finger toward
another room. “In there.”
My mind screamed no.
Thurston clutched at my arm, urging me forward.
What?
He crossed the small, adjoining room and opened
another door.
I balked when I looked inside. “That’s a closet.”
He jerked his head forward and poked my chest with
a gnarled finger. “I got things I need to tell ya, boy. About
Bill. About his wife and that girl.”
Another car door slammed outside. His eyes bugged.
“They’re coming. You ain’t oughta be here when they
come.”
“I can’t hide in a closet.” I tried to push past him.
He blocked my way.
I was twice his size, but I didn’t want to have to plow
over him. He was an old man. “I can find my own way out.”
He shook his head. “There ain’t no way out. They’ll be
watching.”
The man was crazy. “I’ll take my chances.”
He lowered his head. Kind of like a bull right before it
charges. “Wait ‘til they’re gone.”
That sounded like an order.
The doorbell rang.
I tried to push past him again.
An odd noise—a flash of light—the room went dark.

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