WATCHERS by Dean R. Koontz

back across the years, the lines in his face seemed to deepen, and his blue eyes

appeared faded. After a moment he shook his head and continued:

“Anyway, those were different times, when a woman betrayed by a husband was an

object of pity, ridicule. But even for those days, I thought Violet’s reaction

was overblown. She burned all his clothes and changed the locks on the house . .

. she even killed a dog, a spaniel, of which he was fond. Poisoned it. And

mailed it to him in a box.”

“Dear God,” Travis said.

Garrison said, “Violet took back her maiden name because she didn’t want his any

more. The thought of carrying George Olmstead’s name through life repelled her,

she said, even though he was dead. She was an unforgiving woman.”

“Yes,” Nora agreed.

His face pinched with distaste at the memory, and Garrison said, “When George

was killed, she didn’t bother to conceal her pleasure.”

“Killed?” Nora half-expected to hear that Violet had murdered George Olmstead

yet had somehow escaped prosecution.

“It was an auto accident, forty years ago,” Garrison said. “He lost control on

the Coast Highway driving home from Los Angeles, went over the edge where, in

those days, there wasn’t a guardrail. The embankment was sixty or eighty feet

high, very steep, and George’s car—a large black Packard— rolled over several

times on the way down to the rocks below. Violet inherited everything because,

though she had initiated divorce proceedings against him, George had not gotten

around to changing his will.”

Travis said, “So George Olmstead not only betrayed Violet but, in dying, left

her with no target for her anger. So she directed that anger at the world in

general.”

“And at me in particular,” Nora said.

That same afternoon, Nora told Travis about her painting. She had not mentioned

her artistic pursuits before, and he had not been in her bedroom to see her

easel, supply cabinet, and drawing board. She was not sure why she had kept this

aspect of her life a secret from him. She had mentioned an interest in art,

which was why they had gone to galleries and museums, but Perhaps she had never

spoken of her own work because she was afraid that, On seeing her canvases, he

would be unimpressed.

What if he felt that she had no real talent?

Aside from the escape provided by books, the thing that kept Nora going

through many grim, lonely years was her painting. She believed that she was

good, perhaps very good, though she was too shy and too vulnerable to voice that

conviction to anyone. What if she was wrong? What if she had no talent and had

been merely filling time? Her art was the primary medium by which she defined

herself. She had little else with which to sustain even her thin and shaky

self-image, so she desperately needed to believe in her talent. Travis’s opinion

meant more to her than she could say, and if his reaction to her painting was

negative, she would be devastated.

But after leaving Garrison Dilworth’s office, Nora knew that the time had come

to take the risk. The truth about Violet Devon had been a key that had unlocked

Nora’s emotional prison. She would need a long time to move from her cell, down

the long hall to the outside world, but the journey would inevitably continue.

Therefore, she would have to open herself to all the experiences that her new

life provided, including the awful possibility of rejection and severe

disappointment. Without risk, there was no hope of gain.

Back at the house, she considered taking Travis upstairs to have a look at a

half dozen of her most recent paintings. But the idea of having a man in her

bedroom, even with the most innocent intentions, was too unsettling. Garrison

Dilworth’s revelations freed her, yes, and her world was rapidly broadening, but

she was not yet that free. Instead, she insisted that Travis and Einstein sit on

one of the big sofas in the furniture-stuffed living room, where she would bring

some of her canvases for viewing. She turned on all the lights, drew the drapes

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