A Stranger in My Grave Read Online Free PDF Page B

“I’ve got twenty-five minutes before I’m due at the courthouse.”
    â€œI don’t want to.”
    â€œI think you want to.”
    â€œNo, I feel like such a fool.”
    â€œSo do I, standing around in the pouring rain. Come on, Daisy.”
    They took the elevator up to the third floor. Adam’s reception­ist and his secretary were both still out to lunch, and the suite was quiet and dark. Adam turned on the lamps in the reception room; then he went into his office, hung up his wet tweed jacket to dry on an old-fashioned brass clothes rack.
    â€œSit down, Daisy. You’re looking great. How’s Jim?”
    â€œFine.”
    â€œHas he been making any new furniture?”
    â€œNo. He’s refinishing an old bird’s-eye maple desk for the den.”
    â€œWhere did he get hold of it?”
    â€œThe former owners of the house he bought left it behind as trash. I guess they didn’t know what it was—it had so many layers of paint on it. Ten at least, Jim says.”
    She knew this was part of his technique, getting her started talking about safe, impersonal things first, and she half resented the fact that it was working. It was as if he’d applied a few drops of oil to the proper places and suddenly wheels began turning and she told him about the dream. The rain beat in torrents against the windows, but Daisy was walking on a sunny beach with her dog, Prince.
    Adam leaned back in his chair and listened, his only outward reaction an occasional blink. Inwardly, he was surprised, not at the dream itself, but at the way she related it, coldly and without emotion, as if she were describing a simple factual chain of events, not a mere fantasy of her own mind.
    She completed her account by telling him the dates on the tombstone. “November 13, 1930, and December 2, 1955. My birthday,” she said, “and my death day.”
    The strange word annoyed him; he didn’t understand why. “Is there such a word?”
    â€œYes.”
    He grunted and leaned forward, the chair squeaking under his weight. “I’m no psychiatrist. I don’t interpret dreams.”
    â€œI’m not asking you to. No interpretation is necessary. It’s all quite clear. On December 2, 1955, something happened to me that was so terrible it caused my death. I was psychically murdered.”
    Psychic murder, Adam thought. Now I’ve heard everything. These damned silly idle women who sit around dreaming up trouble for themselves and everyone else. . . .
    â€œDo you really believe that, Daisy?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAll right. Suppose something catastrophic actually happened on that day. Why is it you don’t remember what it was?”
    â€œI’m trying to. That’s the real reason I wanted to talk to you. I’ve got to remember. I’ve got to reconstruct the whole day.”
    â€œWell, I can’t help you. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. I see no point in people deliberately trying to recall an unpleasant occurrence.”
    â€œUnpleasant occurrence? That’s a pretty mild expression for what happened.”
    â€œIf you don’t recall what happened,” he said with a touch of irony, “how do you know it’s a pretty mild expression?”
    â€œI know.”
    â€œYou know. Just like that, eh?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI wish all knowledge was as easy to come by.”
    Her gaze was cool and steady. “You don’t take me very seri­ously, do you, Adam? That’s too bad, because I’m actually quite a serious person. Jim and my mother treat me like a child, and I frequently respond like one because it’s easier that way—it doesn’t upset their image of me. My self-image is quite different. I con­sider myself fairly bright. I graduated from college when I was twenty-one. . . . Well, we won’t go into that. It’s evident I’m not convincing you of anything.”