Speak to Me Read online

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Speak To Me

  Rachel Rawlings

  Copyright © 2017 by Rachel Rawlings

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This goes out to all my wonderful readers, thanks for hanging in there with me.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Beginning

  The street was dead beyond the dull glow from the lamplight, the faded sounds of cars barely penetrating the gentle patter of rain against pavement. The key was soundless as it turned in the lock, and the thief froze for one second, well aware if he continued on, his life would never be the same.

  The thought of the gold, the worn and buffed gleam of it, had his hands trembling. He used the key to pop the lock and turned the knob. Silence. He closed the door behind himself and breathed in the familiar smell of the shop, of lemon furniture wax and rich men’s cologne.

  He stopped in the center of the room his eyes for only one case. This treasure was like no other, singular in its history, significant because of its fabled lore. It had been scooped from the sands off the coast of the Dominican Republic, on the tempestuous coast where the ocean battered the shore.

  The thief’s hands trembled as they hovered above case. He had keys for this as well. He shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out the small ring, the key, newly ground, glinted in the dim light. That Klondike couldn’t even appreciate what he had. He didn’t realize the true value of the pieces he held so tightly, even if he had skirted the law to get them. He didn’t see the history, see the lives lost trying to transport this particular treasure, part of a royal collection. No, Klondike saw the stones, the precious metals, as things. What a true crime it was.

  He heard the click of the lock and gently eased out the board where the riches were displayed. In his mind, a soft voice said mine, mine. He believed that part of the booty was rightfully his, the inheritance from family he had never gotten to meet. His grandfather, many times removed, had died in the wreckage, a sailor who had spent his days afloat, seeing his Italian homeland only as a young man, and again when his body had been laid to rest.

  Yes, he had grown up on those stories of a dead man. And when he had heard of the recovery, that technology had finally allowed the long-lost bounty to be retrieved from the sea, his heart had leapt at the thought of seeing it.

  But that was before he had met Klondike, who saw the silver coins, the fine jewels, as another prize in his growing collection. He had cared nothing for this history. He had, without the knowledge or the permission of the country it came from, gone into the waters off the coast and dredged up the skeleton of the old ship.

  Now, as the weather was growing cooler, the leaves changing along with the world around him, the thief had decided to take back what rightfully belonged to him.

  He pulled out the simple cloth bag he had brought with him, and tumbled the gold and jewels into it in one smooth motion. He froze. There had been a few pieces that didn’t belong to the collection that had been added as props. Should he fish them out? But no, he didn’t have the time. He would someday return the baubles to the original owners, long after he had taken care of his own treasure. He then eased the board back in place and stopped, undecided. Before him were cases upon cases of jewels. He could unlock each and every one and pluck the choicest stones from their resting place. He could then dismantle the jewelry, he knew well how to do it and sell it, piece by piece, until he was a very old and rich man.

  He shook his head. No. That was not his plan. He used the cloth he had stuffed in his pocket to polish the cases, wiping away prints, evidence of his presence. Then he took the small hammer from his pocket. This was the hard part. He stood still and poised, and swung the hammer. Glass shattered like a music from the deep, and the deed was done, the destruction had begun, and the ties to his life were severed forever.

  Chapter 1

  The car was still cold when Brianna rounded the last corner of Hurstbourne Lane on her way to Franklin Manor, the late February snow melting in ugly grey clumps on the edges of the road and driveway. As usual, the unpredictable Kentucky weather was playing havoc with the barely salted roadways. The building in front of her was capped with a white roof, like whipped cream slowly falling, but otherwise looked no worse for wear from the recent snowstorm.

  The parking lot was mostly populated with employee cars, since few visitors were intrepid enough to brave the biting cold and the snow-covered lot. One shiny Mercedes, unsoiled by snow or salt, was pulled into the spot reserved for doctors in the very front next to the building while a second larger sedan sat next to it. Brianna parked in the employee lot and walked, head down against the wind, through the glass doors of the nursing home.

  The too warm air greeted her almost immediately as she opened the door. With it came the familiar odor of antiseptic, urine, and burnt coffee. The halls were empty except for nursing carts and the janitor’s bucket on wheels, a mop balanced against the wall.

  She stopped by the Rehabilitation Gym, briskly opening the unlocked door and switching on the lights. Even empty, the room seemed busy. The tile floors bore scuffs from soft shoes and the rubber stoppers on wheeled walkers. Racks of weights and shelves of multicolored loops, straps, and pegboards lined one wall. She walked quickly past the parallel bars and into the tiny office with Speech Therapy posted on the open door and gathered her files and workbooks. Although she wasn’t a full-time employee any longer, she still knew where everything was stored, and was grateful for that.

  The nursing home wasn’t as busy as a usual Saturday, inclement weather kept visitors from visiting, and the hallway was still empty as she passed, the file in hand for her first patient. Much of the paperwork had been moved to digital formats, but there were still therapists who preferred to print out their notes, and for that, Brianna was grateful.

  She stopped at the open doorway of a semiprivate roo
m and knocked briskly on the doorframe, pulling the man’s file to the top of the stack. She introduced herself to the gentleman within and began the session, comfortable with the familiar routine. On the printed sheet before her were his goals, the specific plans for what lessons he needed to work on to help him recover his communication since a recent stroke that had put him in the hospital for the past four weeks. The targets differed from person to person, but she knew her workbooks and exercises almost by heart, so it was easy to find the particular page and start working.

  Her second and third patients were equally easy. Their treatments were completed just before mealtime, their sessions taking only thirty minutes each. Brianna was happy to see they both had visitors to sit with them during their meal.

  As she returned to the therapy room, she checked her watch, noting she had only been working for two hours. She often came in on weekends to work with patients that needed the extra therapy, and it gave her some satisfaction to keep active in what had once been her old position. Therapy had been a good fit for her. She liked working with people, helping people, and she was intrigued by the way the mind worked.

  She filled out the necessary paperwork before signing out for the day and gathered her coat and purse. Her hand on the knob, she stopped at the doorway, looking back down the hallway.

  In the other direction, the front door swung open and Brianna was surprised to see the figure of a woman stalking out the door. A gust of chilled air and biting temperatures snuck in with the motion. The woman seemed unaware of the weather. Her close cut burgundy jacket clung to a curvaceous figure and her high-heeled shoes seemed to sink alarmingly in the slush and mud mounded on edges of the walkway as she strolled out. She hunched her shoulders and used gloved hands to pull her collar up close around her well-coiffured blond hair. She gave the building a final glance, which revealed scarlet cheeks and long dark lashes. She shook her head, her body language expressing some kind of agitation, and then yanked open the door of the Mercedes parked just outside the main entrance of the facility. After she slid into the dark interior, she pulled the door closed quickly. Brianna watched with trepidation as the woman backed out, accelerating recklessly and narrowly missing mashing the pristine bumper of her Mercedes into the car next to her. With a belch of exhaust, she was gone, leaving a steaming cloud in her wake.

  “Interesting,” Brianna murmured to herself, wondering what had gotten under the woman’s perfumed skin. With a slight smile and shake of her head, Brianna turned away from the front door and pulled the door behind her closed, hearing the lock as the therapy room was secured until another person from the therapy department came by. She found herself checking her watch and stopped again. “It’s early. Maybe I’ll go see some of the regulars,” she said aloud. She left the subacute wing and walked confidently through the other sections of the facility.

  Brianna passed through the skilled unit quickly, waving to the nurse at the desk as she went by. Most of the staff who had worked there a year ago remained, with only a few unfamiliar faces here and there. She had enjoyed her time working in the facility, but the call of the private practice had been too much for her to pass up. She was able to make her own schedule now, and as much as she missed her patients here, she had been able to slip into her new life with few regrets.

  The next carpeted hallway muffled the noise of the footsteps and carts while the harsh lighting bathed the corridor with an unmerciful glow. Some of the residents were traversing the hall, moving slowly in wheelchairs or bent over walkers. Brianna nodded and smiled at most of them, stopping to speak to a few.

  At the end of the hall, a wide living space stretched across the front of the building, a television dominating one wall and a huge fish tank on the wall opposite. Ten or so patients sat out by the television; blank faces turned to the flickering screen while an old black and white movie played before them. One of the more enterprising ladies sat knitting by the window while a second sat across from her and read a large print paperback novel. Brianna went down the adjacent hall and stopped at the second one, pausing to knock on the door.

  “Who is it? I don’t want any visitors! And if you just want to give me more of that damn medicine, come back later. I’m watching my show.”

  “Tony, for goodness sake, are you still being mean to these poor nurses?”

  He wheeled his chair around quickly, his face lighting up. “Well I’ll be damned, if it isn’t Therapy come back to pay us a visit. Look, Freddie, it’s Brianna,” he said, directing his gaze to his roommate. “You workin’ today, honey?”

  “Just a little. I’m finished now, but thought I’d pay you guys a visit.” She walked further into the room, her eyes settling on the other resident in the room while he rested in the bed. He had been her patient over two years before, a bright smiling man who enjoyed handing out hard candy and telling stories of the Depression to anyone who would pause a moment to listen. A stroke a year ago had robbed him of all vitality. These days he habitually lay in bed or in a reclining chair, his eyes gazing into the empty space above him.

  “Hi, Fred. I see your wife has left more pictures. That grand-baby of yours has really grown up over the last couple of months.”

  The man on the bed continued to stare at the ceiling, his face slack and emotionless.

  “He’s not eating enough,” Tony said in an undertone. “Ruth says he’s lost too much weight and the doctor is talking about a tube. He’d hate it. And they’ll move him to the next unit. They’re thinking they may have to soon anyway. He’s getting to be a little hard to handle.” He turned the chair to pull closer to the bed. “Freddie, you’ve got to eat more. Sweet Ruth is getting worried.”

  Brianna felt a surge of pity for Ruth, Fred’s wife of over fifty years. She had lost her husband once after the stroke; it looked as though she was at risk for losing him completely. “So Tony, how have you been?” she asked, trying to change the subject.

  “Can’t complain, sweetheart. My sugar still goes up and down too much and the leg still aches,” he gestured to the empty pants leg. “It’s been almost six months and sometimes I still dream of running. But besides that and all the damn pills, we’re doing pretty fine.”

  She nodded and sat on the bed across from him, dropping her purse and coat next to her on the blanket. She had known him for almost two years; she had become his friend while working with his roommate. She had always been charmed by his warmth, but she had truly grown to respect him after the stroke had taken Fred into its numbing grip. Tony had been a steadfast friend by encouraging his roommate to move and to eat while he bolstered Fred’s grieving wife by treating her afflicted husband with understanding.

  “Any new visitors? How do you like the new staff?”

  “Nobody visits but you and the other therapy girls. I like that OT especially. She does a mean massage. Of course, you’re my favorite.”

  “You say that to all the girls.”

  “No, I don’t, and you know it. I miss you coming by. Still working on the great novel?”

  “Sometimes. I’ve been busy lately. I moved into a new apartment about a week ago. It’s fabulous and has tons more room.”

  “Fabulous?” Tony’s face creased with a wide smile. “Good, good. It’s good to get new scenery once in awhile. Might help your writing. You’ll have to let me read your book when you’re done. Maybe if I approve, I’ll let you write my life story.” He winked playfully; his eyes alight with mischief. His skin was still swarthy from his warm Italian homeland, even though he hadn’t been in the sunlight since the autumn months. His lined face was almost always animated; his sharp tongue and temper always softened by the ready grin that followed. He ran a freckled hand over his balding head, a tremor revealing the weakness that gradually drained the vibrancy from him as the day wore on.

  “Sure, I’ll be happy to get your story. You got anything juicy.”

  He laughed aloud. “Oh, sure.”

  She smiled back at him, but didn’t question him further. The
y never discussed his past. He had remained stubbornly reticent about everything that had to do with his home or his family. The fact that no one ever visited him made her think there had been some sort of break in the relationship a long time ago, which was unfortunately not so unusual in a place such as this. She also knew through facility gossip he wasn’t currently married, but had no idea if he had any children or other family left.

  The door opened slowly, a heavy-set woman gently knocked as she pushed the door ajar. “Tony, time for your snack and meds. I know you want to visit, so I’ll get out of your hair as soon as you finish this off.”

  He frowned at the nurse, but obediently took the pills she offered and downed them in one large swallow. “Ain’t got no hair,” he muttered, casting her a side-glance. “I’ll eat this stuff in a second, I promise. Do you think you could scrounge up a banana I could have with dinner?” His smile became charming, and the nurse nodded and smiled back. When she had gone, Tony leaned back and tossed the bowl of applesauce into the trash.

  “Now Tony --”

  “I know, I know. But I’m an old man, and if I don’t want to eat that crap, I can make up my own mind. I’ve already lost a leg to this diabetes; I can make a pretty informed decision.”

  “I know.” Brianna sat back, suddenly feeling very tired. She changed the subject, coaxing him into telling stories about his Italian grandmother, one of the few family members of whom he spoke.

  “We Renolis have always been a wily bunch. Why, my own Grandfather, or was it Great-grandfather,” his attention drifted to some long-ago story told in his mind, “Well, he was rumored to have connections to piracy. Not that modern kind either, the kind with the sailing ships and all.”