Eyes at the Window Read Free Page A

random patterns from the wind and animals passing, like a painting still wet from the artist’s brush. The purple heads of clover flowers, faded from the summer sun just past, poked through the green.
    There was no sign of the observer from the night before. The puddles in the ground were just puddles, although she realized the rain could have washed away any footprints he had left behind. She was able to convince herself she had only imagined or dreamt the face at the window. There was certainly no one in sight this morning.
    The house and garage were set at ninety degree angles to each other around the circular driveway. A frayed electrical wire hung between the two buildings like a leash between owner and pet. A small dog house, looking in better repair than either of the other two buildings, sat between them. Rufus was investigating it now, sniffing gingerly inside its door first, then going in and coming back out again. At some distance to the rear of the garage were the outbuildings, most prominently a huge red barn. The tall barn doors hung closed on wheels that looked so rusted she imagined they would be hard to roll open. A large multi-paned window in the loft, just under the eaves, had two broken frames and shimmered pink from the morning sun.
    “Here Rufus,” she called, setting his breakfast on the concrete slab around the well cover. The gloves she’d seen there last night, she could now tell, looked threadbare and ancient. They had obviously been sitting there for months or even longer.
    Miranda had never felt so alone in her whole life. There was a peace to that on the one hand, but she also felt, glancing once again at the pink-paned barn window, a sense of unease. Someone could be hidden behind that window right now, watching her every move. She shook off the thought. Surely she was safer here than in many of Chicago’s busiest, less reputable neighborhoods. It was just that the very foreignness of the setting felt almost ominous for some reason. In response, she dug a shoulder holster out of her luggage and strapped her gun into it. She felt more secure, somehow, with its weighty bulk secure and close at hand.
    A pipe stuck into the concrete with a red-handled spigot provided access to water from the well below. Miranda ran it long enough to wash away a rusty color from the pipes, then filled a dish for Rufus. Cupping her hands under the flow she first sniffed, then tasted the water and, finding it potable, took a long soothing draft herself.
    “City water never tastes that good,” she said out loud. Not even filtered water.
    Rufus didn’t seem to care. After lapping up a few toungefuls of water and wolfing down his food, he was off to research the brush in the overgrown orchard by the side of the house. Which left Miranda by herself to explore inside the residence.
    What she found was nowhere near as intimidating as it had seemed the night before. The kitchen had tall windows that let in as much of the early morning light as possible. True, the rays highlighted the depth of the dust on the kitchen counters and the cobwebs in the corners. But it also made the flowered border along the top of the walls seem cheerful and welcoming, The pale blue backsplash behind the stove had a miniature calf, lamb or chick painted on every third or fourth tile. Miranda could remember sitting at this very table eating oatmeal in the mornings and pretending the farm animals would play hopscotch from square to square when no one was looking.
    Despite the nostalgia she felt, the job ahead of her did seem a bit overwhelming. The boxes she’d found in the kitchen appeared to be personal possessions of her grandmother’s. She assumed they had been stacked close to the door for ease of removal, but no one had carried through on the intent. Miranda used one of the boxes to keep the kitchen door propped up so Rufus could come and go as he pleased. A little fresh air would help diffuse the musty smell in the rooms, as