Framed For Murder (An Anna Nolan Mystery) (32 page)

“What do you think you’re doing?” he hollered.
But there was no one there, just the dim outline of the tombstone. He hesitated, sure that this was where he had seen the light.

“Sherman . . . ,” a voice sighed on the wind.
He jerked his head sideways, trying to follow the sound, but it was impossible to tell where it came from. His hands clutched the bench, the metal cold and hard beneath his fingers.

“Who’s there?” he yelled, straining to see in the dark.

“Sherman . . . ,” the voice moaned, coming from the heart of the plot feet-deep in front of him.
His breath came in short gasps, rasping in and out of his throat, his legs shaking.

“Sherman!” the voice shrieked, piercing his ears and squeezing the breath out of his chest.
He turned to run, and tripped. Clawing at the ground, he staggered to his feet, terrified of skeletal fingers clutching at his shoulder. He tore across the grass and ran between the plots, barking his shins on more than one tombstone. He found the ring road and pushed himself down it, running and hopping as fast as he could go. Reaching the door in the wall, he flung it open and sprinted up the slope for home.

Thank God he had left the front door unlocked.
Once inside, he shot the bolt home and ran upstairs to cower in bed with all the lights on. He laid there, his heart thumping erratically in his chest. Resting his right hand over his heart, he tried to will it to calm down. “Mental imaging” the people at the clinic had called it. He swallowed hard and attempted to think. Was he crazy, or had his wife just called to him from the other side of the grave?

Her photograph was on his bedside table in a polished silver frame, the only valuable thing still left.
The picture showed her as a young woman, her blond hair cascading in silky waves to her shoulders, her blue eyes winkling. Clutching it to his chest, he rocked back and forth on the bed.

“I’m sorry, Evie,” he said, his voice cracking.

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