Stolen Read Online Free PDF Page B

exertion.
    But murderers!
    At the back of the limousine, Irwin opened the trunk and took out a tire iron. Michael stared at the crooked metal rod.
    â€œI hope you don’t think that’s going to be necessary.”
    Irwin grimaced. “I rather hope not, Mr. Graham. But Idon’t like taking chances considering the situation we’re presently in.” He tried a smile but it didn’t quite come off. “Personally, I’d prefer a handgun. Something chambered in large caliber and possessing a huge magazine.”
    Not for the first time, Michael wondered about Irwin’s past. The man hadn’t always been a caretaker, but he’d never bothered to fill in all the blank spots on his resume. He knew the oddest things.
    Michael sprinted after Iris and caught up with her on the second-floor landing. “Do you know which flat Abigail lived in?”
    â€œNumber three.” Iris kept her hand on the banister as she pulled herself along. “At the corner.”
    Michael stepped in front of her. “Would you please wait here with Irwin?”
    Iris hesitated, then she nodded in obvious irritation. “Rather than have you worrying about me and be distracted, I’ll agree to that. For the moment.” She stared into his eyes. “If you should need help—”
    â€œYou’ll know.” Michael walked along the narrow landing toward the flat at the end.
    â€œBe careful.”
    He wanted to tell her that being careful involved staying in the limousine. Instead, he concentrated on the flat ahead of him and tried not to think of all the private investigator movies he’d watched where the hero got whacked on the head for his troubles.
    When he found the door slightly ajar, Michael hoped it meant they were too late. Unless Abigail Whiteshire hadn’t closed her door well on her way out.
    From the corner of his eye, he saw Iris straining to watch him. Irwin stood silently beside her, the tire iron hanging from his hand.
    Michael took shelter beside the door and hoped thatthe men they’d come after had somehow lost their guns. Knives would be bad enough, but it was possible to outrun a knife. He made himself breathe out because he was hyperventilating.
    Then he used his elbow to open the unlocked door.
    Nothing stirred inside.
    â€œWhatever are you doing?”
    The voice came from up above and Michael almost bolted when he heard it. He tracked the question to an elderly woman standing on the landing, peering down at him.
    â€œCall the coppers.” Michael shook his head at his choice of words. The term had come too easily. Too many crime movies.
    The woman disappeared, presumably to make that very call.
    After he fished his iPhone from his pocket, he switched on the flashlight app. The beam from the rectangular screen wasn’t strong, but it illuminated the dark interior of the flat. Feeling fearful, he walked inside.
    Overturned furniture lay scattered across the carpeted floor. Michael assumed that Abigail Whiteshire was normally much neater, but hardly anything looked organized now. The living room was sectioned off into a dining room, as well, and a closet door stood open, coats and clothing spilling onto the floor.
    Whoever had broken into the house had obviously been in a hurry.
    â€œMichael?”
    â€œI’m all right, Iris.” Michael turned and shined the phone around the room. Sudden movement to his right sent him into a panic. He dodged to one side and managed to topple a vase of flowers, which smashed against the floor.
    â€œMichael!”
    A soot-gray cat on the window ledge hissed and spat. Its eyes lit up as orange as cigarette coals in the phone’s light. Fear rippled its muscles and it arched its back.
    Feeling foolish and inept, Michael regained his balance. “It was nothing. I tripped. Abigail had a cat.”
    â€œI should have mentioned the cat. He’s very territorial. His name is Ambrose.”
    Michael gave the