Page 38 of The Executioners Three

Freddie found the hospital’s waiting area exactly as it had been the day before, minus Theo’s restless energy to fill it. Amazing how empty it felt without him there.

No. Freddie’s face puckered up as she crossed the beige tiles. Do not think about him. You’re not allowed to think about him. Now or ever again. She had messed up on the bike ride with Divya; she refused to make that same secret-keeping mistake again.

Fortunately, it took Freddie only twelve footsteps to forget about Theo. Twelve footsteps that carried her right up to Mrs. Ferris’s room… where her windpipe promptly closed off and her pulse thumped into her eardrums.

She shoved her way in, half-frantic, half-sluggish, until at last she was inside and the door was clunking shut behind her.

Of course, Freddie realized a split second too late that maybe she should’ve knocked before coming in.

Or maybe she should’ve found a nurse. Or maybe brought some flowers or a “Get Well Soon” balloon. Something other than simply barging in.

But it was too late now; Freddie could already hear Mrs. Ferris shifting in her bed behind the blue privacy curtain. The lights were off. The plastic blinds were drawn.

“Rita?” came a feeble voice, at once familiar and at once foreign. Mrs. Ferris had never sounded feeble before. “If you’ve brought me more donuts, I’m going to scream. I told you I wanted beef jerky.”

Okay, that sounded more like the Mrs. Ferris Freddie knew. And it gave her the final nudge of courage she needed to march to the curtain and poke her head through.

“Hi, Mrs. Ferris.” She tried for a smile. It fell flat.

“Freddie?” Mrs. Ferris blinked, startled. Then she snatched at a pair of glasses looped around her neck. Her blankets rustled.

She looked so frail, her skin makeup-free and her hair unstyled. The hospital gown only made it worse, revealing the sharp lines of her shoulders.

And for a moment, Freddie was completely thrown by it all—by how this vision clashed with her mental image of Mrs. Ferris.

Which was why, for several long seconds, all Freddie could do was stare.

Gone were the recited words she had prepared on her bike ride.

Gone were the planned apologies or desperate pleadings for forgiveness.

This woman was her friend. She was also Sheriff Bowman’s mother and Theo’s grandmother. What had Freddie done to her?

But then, seemingly out of nowhere, Mrs. Ferris transformed. She sat taller. Her eyes flashed behind her thick glasses, and she even snapped her fingers. “Come,” she barked. “We don’t have much time.”

Freddie obeyed, too startled to do otherwise. “Time for what?”

Mrs. Ferris’s fingers lashed out. With shocking strength, she yanked Freddie to the bed. Her skin was papery this near. Her blue eyes bloodshot. “How did you know to visit me?”

“Uh,” Freddie began eloquently, but Mrs. Ferris wasn’t listening. She was already powering on.

“Doesn’t matter,” she continued. “Rita will be here momentarily, and she must not know about this. Do you understand?”

Freddie didn’t understand at all, actually. Sheriff Bowman was Mrs. Ferris’s daughter. Why couldn’t she know Freddie had come?

As soon as Freddie’s lips parted to ask this question, Mrs. Ferris continued: “Just listen to me, Freddie: it’s too dangerous. Don’t you see? Rita can’t… resist… Just like my Teddy couldn’t. So you have to figure it all out.”

“Figure what out?”

“What I was tracking all these years.” The old woman’s urgency shifted into something pained. “It started with Rita’s brother and a bell no one else could hear.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying—”

“You know where my house is?” Mrs. Ferris interrupted.

“There’s a key under the potted basil by the back door.

I want you to go inside. Then go upstairs.

At the end of the hall is a stairwell into the attic.

” Each of Mrs. Ferris’s words was breathier than the last—although less from exertion and more from urgency.

From panic, even. “All the way at the back of my attic, behind an old dollhouse, you’ll find a hidden room. ”

Freddie’s eyes widened.

“That’s where you’ll find the answers you need. More than I can give you right now.” Mrs. Ferris flung her gaze to the door. “Lives depend on you, Freddie.”

Freddie rocked back. “I don’t understand, Mrs. Ferris. What are you talking about? You can’t just say all this stuff and not explain.”

Another blue-eyed blink behind the glasses—but this time it was laced with doubt. She raked her gaze up. Then down. “You’re Frank Carter’s daughter. I know you can figure this out. I see it in you. No—don’t say anything, Freddie. You need to go . Rita will be here at any moment.”

Freddie didn’t want to go. Her mind was reeling, her gut was a block of lead encased in ice, and she had a million questions. A galaxy of questions, bright and desperate. But now Mrs. Ferris was shoving at her. Pushing her away from the bed. “Key is under the basil pot. Now, hurry!”

Freddie didn’t hurry. Or even move. She just stood there, numbly gawping at the frenzied old lady before her.

Because this was seriously more than her brain could work with right now.

She had been accused of lying by the sheriff because all of her hard-won evidence had been stolen .

Then she’d found gravestones in the woods and Laina with a candle.

Now this too? Now she was expected to go into Mrs. Ferris’s house and find a secret room in the attic?

The room’s phone rang. Mrs. Ferris ripped up the receiver by her bed. “Hello, Rita!” she cried, pinning Freddie with a fierce glare. “Oh, you’re at the front desk? I’m glad you called up, so I can make myself decent. Yes, I’ll see you soon.”

She slammed down the phone. “Go,” she snarled, and this time, Freddie didn’t hesitate. She spun on her heel and bolted from the room. Then down the hall and into the waiting area—where the elevator was already dinging.

No time, no time. The doors slid wide.

Freddie dove behind a potted plant. She was totally visible, and her breath came in punctuated gasps. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t risk finding a better spot, because there was Sheriff Bowman right there, strutting out of the elevator.

Don’t see me, Freddie prayed. Don’t see me, don’t see me .

Sheriff Bowman didn’t see her. She was distracted, running her hands through her hair and even muttering to herself as she stalked across the waiting room. Then she was past, and Freddie made her move, quiet as a panther.

She charged for the still-open elevator doors, lurching inside right as they began to close. Pulse plodding in her ears, she waited for the door to finish closing. For the elevator to jerk into a noisy descent.

What the heck had just happened? And what the heck was Freddie supposed to do about it all? Mrs. Ferris had acted as if Sheriff Bowman—her own daughter—couldn’t be trusted. Like she was dangerous even.

Have you considered the possibility, Divya had said, that maybe Sheriff Bowman is the one who moved the water bottle?

Freddie gulped, her throat thick. “It started with Rita’s brother,” Freddie whispered to herself, repeating what Mrs. Ferris had said.

“And a bell no one else could hear.” Always, always, everything came back to a bell.

A bell that Freddie couldn’t find but that she’d heard ringing on two different nights now.

Freddie was shivering by the time she reached the sliding doors outside of the hospital. Not from cold, but from adrenaline. And maybe a little fear too—after all, was she really about to do this? Was she really going to bust into Mrs. Ferris’s house and find a secret room hidden in the attic?

It seemed that yes… Yes, she was. How Nancy Drew of her. How Fox Mulder too.

By the time Freddie unchained her bike, she was shivering from actual cold. She sorely regretted forgetting her jacket at Divya’s, but like mosquito bites and fear, there was nothing to do but scratch at the shivers until they went away.

So after checking that Xena was still secure around her neck, Freddie kicked off into the freezing wind.

Snow still fell.

Mrs. Ferris’s house was only a block from Freddie’s, so she decided to leave Steve’s bike in the garage and trek the final distance on foot. It just seemed wiser for sneaking purposes.

A quick jog carried her across the street, where she cut between the Hansens’ and the Chos’, then a brief stretch of woods led her to Mrs. Ferris’s backyard. Surrounded by a high wooden fence, the yard was mostly just patio and potted plants (that didn’t look too good in this weather).

The gate wasn’t locked, and although Freddie’s teeth were chattering when she slunk inside, she scarcely noticed.

Her heart boomed too loudly in her ears, her throat felt like sandpaper, and every nerve in her body was on fire.

Sure, Mrs. Ferris might have told Freddie to come here, but Mrs. Ferris had also made it clear that if Sheriff Bowman found her, very bad things would ensue.

Things worse than a mere arrest for trespassing.

Freddie found the basil easily enough, and as promised, a rusty key waited beneath. With a furtive glance around, she unlocked the back door and shoved inside.

The first thing she noticed was the warmth (thank god), followed quickly by the smell. Like apples and cinnamon.

Once Freddie’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she found herself in an old kitchen crammed with jars of jam.

Like, there must have been at least a hundred of them on every available surface.

Because of course, Freddie thought. Mrs. Ferris is getting ready for the fête.

She always had a booth to sell her jams and fruit preserves—and she always sold out.