Lost Lives (Emily Swanson Mystery Thriller Series Book 1) Read Free

What more did a bedroom need?
    Turning her attention to a heap of towels, she folded each one corner to corner, then carried them to the bathroom. As she pulled open the closet door, she had the sudden and uncomfortable sensation of feeling like an intruder. This was not her home—not this apartment, not this city. The sense of displacement overwhelmed her as she perched on the edge of the bath, hugging the towels to her chest. She looked up, waiting for the feeling to pass.
    Something was jutting out from the top shelf of the closet. Standing on the tips of her toes, Emily reached up, clasped her fingers around its edges and pulled the large object down towards her.
    It was an oil painting. Filling the canvas were the head and shoulders of a middle-aged Caucasian woman, whose white-blonde hair curved sharply around her features and ended just below her ears. Eyes the colour of a crisp morning sky fixed Emily with an unsettling gaze. Below them, thin lips silently judged. The most disconcerting feature of the painting, however, was the woman’s neck. It was elongated beyond all natural human dimensions, long brushstrokes creating a birdlike curve.
    The anxiety in Emily’s stomach clambered up into her chest. The painting unsettled her, yet she found she could not look away.
    A sharp rapping broke the strange spell that had been cast over her. Setting the painting down, she tiptoed through the apartment. The gloom of the hallway seeped inside as she opened the apartment door.
    “Are you all right there, dear?”
    An elderly woman smiled up at her. She was small in stature, barely reaching five feet tall. Time had warped her spine, fusing the vertebrae together so that she stood like a question mark, her head bobbing up and down in front of her shoulders.
    Emily returned her gaze.
    “I’m fine,” she stammered, not knowing how else to reply. “I’ve just moved in.”
    “Me and Andrew were just saying we must go and say hello to the new neighbour, make them feel welcome,” the woman said, in a voice carved from the bricks and mortar of the city. “Because it’s always nice to meet new neighbours and you know that never happens in a place like this. Most people are too busy to spare a minute and say hello to a little old lady like me. But I’ll still give them a wave. Reminds them life isn’t all about running around. Sometimes it’s good just to stop for a moment and take account of the people around you, to have a look around at what you’ve amounted. Goodness, I’m rabbiting on already and I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Harriet Golding. I live right opposite you in number Eleven.”
    Emily looked over the woman’s shoulder, at the open doorway across the hall.
    “Emily,” she said, managing a smile.
    “I’m very pleased to meet you, Emily. Now, why don’t you take a break from all that unpacking and let me get to know you a little better over a nice cup of tea?”
    Emily hesitated. “I—it’s just that there’s so much to do.”
    “Those boxes aren’t going anywhere,” Harriet said. “Humour an old lady and have a cup of tea. I won’t keep you long.”
    When Emily showed no signs of moving, she beckoned her with a papery hand and cackled, “Come along, I won’t bite! The teeth went years ago!”
    Before Emily could change her mind, she found herself standing in Harriet Golding’s hallway, breathing in dust and a musty odour. Behind her, the old woman closed the door, slipping a chain lock into place.
    “Can’t be too careful,” she rasped, the effort of her laughter taking a toll on her lungs. “Don’t know who’s lurking about these days.”
    Emily stared at the piles of books, newspapers, and bric-a-brac that filled the space. Beneath her feet a once red and gold carpet was now faded and threadbare.
    “You sit yourself right down,” Harriet said, leading Emily into a living room half the size of her own.
    Towers of books covered a large table. On a mantelpiece, hordes of