"Hoffman-HauntedHumans" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hoffman Abbie)

you. It's pretty weird, Dot."

"Why don't you read it to me? And get it over with? D.J. poised her pen at the
top of the next message blank, wondering if Sandy would communicate any of the
information in order.

"To, uh, Dorothy Jean, from Chase. Do you suppose that's a first or a last
name?"

To stop her hand from shaking, D.J. pressed the pen down on the message form so
hard it punched through several sheets. "Go on."

"There's, like, no number. It just says, 'You know what I need and I'm coming to
get it.' Don't you think that's weird?"

D.J. said nothing.

"Well, I do. Kind of creepy. Did you get that? 'You know what I need and I'm
coming to get it.' Dot, you still there? Darn, I bet she hung up. Why do people
always hang up on me?"

Deciding to take this as a suggestion, D.J. quietly lowered the phone's handset
until it clicked into the cradle. Chase? It couldn't be Chase. She stared over
the four-foot-high divider that separated her desk and computer hutch from the
office waiting room, her gaze finally settling on the crystal vase of Double
Delight roses Dr. Kabukin had brought in that morning and set among the
magazines and self-help books on the glass-topped table between the two
blue-and-white striped couches. Look how pink and white the roses are, D.J.
thought, just like a baby, perhaps, or the hopes of a young girl on her wedding
night.

From the white walls, colorful abstract pictures glowed in the sun slanting
through the picture window. Leftover Oregon raindrops glistened on the lawn out
front. Everything in D.J.'s view looked cool and clean and calm. Untouched
tranquility, like her life before Chase.

She shuddered and lifted the phone again. For a moment she closed her eyes
tight, concentrating on crashing all the thoughts she didn't want to entertain.
She pressed autodial for the answering service, and smiled down at the message
pad when Poppy picked up.

"Account 551, please," D.J. said, and took the rest of the messages without a
hitch.

Morgan Hesch sat on one of the puffy striped couches in the Mental Healing
Center waiting room and stared at the bits of dirt he'd tracked on the white
speckled rug. Why did they have a lawn out front if they wanted to keep the rug
clean? Well, yeah, there was a brick walk that wound across the lawn, but what
if you were coming from the other direction? And the lawn was green and healthy,
but there were those flower beds. Somebody must rake the edges all the time to