Behind Closed Doors
Read Behind Closed Doors Online
Authors: Sherri Hayes
Contents
First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2012
Copyright © Sherri Hayes, 2012
The right of Sherri Hayes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Writer’s Coffee Shop
(Australia) PO Box 2013 Hornsby Westfield NSW 1635
(USA) PO Box 2116 Waxahachie TX 75168
Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-092-7
E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-091-0
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.
Cover image by: © Robert Keenan
Cover design by: Jennifer McGuire
www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/shayes
Sherri is the author of two novels,
Hidden Threat
and
Slave
(
Finding Anna
Book 1), and a short story,
A Christmas Proposal
. She lives in central Ohio with her husband and three cats. Her mother fostered her love for books at a young age by reading to her as a child. Stories have been floating around in her head for as long as she can remember; however, she didn’t start writing them down until four years ago. It has become a creative outlet that allows her to explore a wide range of emotions while having fun taking her characters through all the twists and turns she can create. When she’s not writing, she can usually be found helping her husband in his woodworking shop.
This is dedicated to my husband who, for the past year, has put up with my weird writing schedule. I couldn’t spend the hours I do writing if it weren’t for his support.
When you start writing a book, you never know what bits of information you’ll need help with. I wanted to say a big thank you to the following people.
Alannah and Amanda who were able to answer an insurance question for me and saved me from another embarrassing conversation over the phone.
To my editor Janine, who, during a long conversation on a completely unrelated story, gave me the idea for the villain in this novel.
And to all my friends and fans on Facebook for helping me to brainstorm ideas and answer my zany questions.
Elizabeth Marshall drove her red Honda Civic into the little town of Springfield, Ohio. The simple name was one of the things that attracted her. It wasn’t complicated, and that was exactly what she needed in her life right now: no complications.
She wanted a fresh start, far away from all the memories of the city she’d left behind. Away from the person everyone thought she was. A person she’d really never been, before or after. At the age of twenty-seven, she would be reborn. Reborn into someone she could be proud of again. Someone who didn’t pretend to be something she wasn’t. Someone her parents could be proud of.
Springfield was big enough to have all the basic necessities without any of the flashy extras you’d find in larger cities. It was just over an hour away from the place she’d called home for the last ten years. Far enough away that she didn’t think anyone here would recognize her, but near enough that she could visit her parents’ graves whenever she wanted. In some ways she was glad they couldn’t see her now. Yes, she missed them, but they’d also missed the mess her life had become. She felt moisture pool in her eyes as she thought of them, and knew that if she didn’t redirect her thoughts soon she’d be a bawling mess by the time she arrived at her destination.
Her destination. As she wove through the side streets, she focused on her surroundings. Springfield felt like a completely different world. No longer would she have to attend cocktail parties or ladies’ teas. Her hair and make-up didn’t have to be perfect before going outside to retrieve the morning paper. Here she could just be herself.
In her search for the perfect place to start this new chapter in her life, she’d stumbled upon an old home that had been turned into apartments. When she’d received the e-mail back from Mrs. Weaver, her new landlady, she knew this was the place for her. The three-story building had been around for over one hundred years, but it looked to be in good repair. She loved old buildings. It was one of the few things she’d enjoyed about where she’d called home for the past five years. In her new home, Mrs. Weaver occupied the bottom level, Elizabeth would be on the second floor. The third floor had an occupant as well, although she hadn’t thought to ask for details.
She felt good about having her own space.
I need my independence,
she reminded herself.
Even with that mantra, it was hard to block out what had led her to this small town surrounded by corn and soybean fields, but there was a new life waiting for her here in Springfield, she just knew it.
With a few more turns, she found the road she was looking for and followed it, as the houses once again became farther and farther apart. There was a line of trees to her right and a soybean field on her left when a mailbox came into view. Sitting back off the road, she could see the large Victorian house tucked between two soybean fields, surrounded by a small grove of trees.
As she drove up the long gravel driveway, she noticed someone looking out the first-story window.
“You can do this,” she said to herself, figuring if she said it enough she could make it true.
Pulling her loose, button-down shirt tighter around her, she got out of the car and went to the trunk. There wasn’t much to retrieve, just two bags. That was all her life consisted of now. All she had chosen to bring with her. The rest of her old life was either in storage, or had been donated to Goodwill. She didn’t need reminders. She had enough of those all on her own.
A woman with salt and pepper hair met her at the door and opened it wide. She looked to be in her mid to late sixties, old enough to be Elizabeth’s mother if she were still alive.
“Hello, my dear. You must be Elizabeth,” she said, reaching out to take one of her bags.
“It’s okay, I’ve got it. They’re not that heavy.”
You could also use the exercise,
her inner voice chastised.
The woman waved her concerns away and took the bag. “Nonsense. I may be old, but I’m not completely useless. Not yet anyway.” Then, extending her hand, she introduced herself. “I’m Janice Weaver, but you can call me Jan. Everybody does.”
Taking the offered hand, Elizabeth said, “It’s nice to meet you.”
She took a quick survey of her surroundings, noting that the pictures online hadn’t done the place justice, and followed Jan into a foyer decorated in cream and soft blue. The ceiling towered high above her, creating an open and inviting space. She loved it already, and she wasn’t even in her apartment yet.