The Killer Is Mine
Page 15
“You’re old-fashioned,” I said.
“I only want to be married once, Steve.”
She was at once femininely helpless and strong, scared and brave. This was the tenderest moment I’d ever experienced.
“It will work,” I said.
And it had. It was not the perfect marriage, but we tried. We were not, I suppose, in love in the strictly romantic sense; we enjoyed and liked and appreciated each other. We had companionship and understanding. We were willing to accept each other’s minor imperfections without hurt or irritation simply because neither was judging the other by the yardstick of a romantic ideal.
Our daughter Penny—four years old, blond curly hair, angels and imps in her blue eyes—cemented the marriage.
If it sounds dull, I’ve given the wrong impression. We visited and partied among a sizable group of friends. Maureen was intelligent, and quick to laugh. Her minor failing was her hatred of details, which was reflected in her housekeeping. The house was never dirty, but always a little cluttered. I didn’t mind; it was comfortable.
If Maureen had a major failing, it was her need for constant appreciation. She wasn’t catty or flirtatious, but when she entered a room she had to know that others knew she was there. The actress in her? Maybe. I was inclined to think the trait came from a sense of insecurity, never visible but never far from her.
The first lights of the city flashed by the coupe: drive-in theaters and restaurants, street lights making yellow halos in the rain.
I kept my foot heavy on the accelerator, threading my way through traffic. I hit the downtown red-light changes with luck. Office buildings and dark stores dropped behind. Streets began to be lined with trees, houses nestled in back of the shelter of lawns and hedges. I swung into the residential section where we lived—Meade Park—and my fingers were gripping the wheel so hard they ached.
It was midnight, and the rain was heavier than when I’d begun to drive. White, snug houses, some showing lights, flashed by.
I turned the corner onto our street, Tarrant Boulevard. Our house was halfway down the block. The living room was lighted and our car was parked under the carport.
I let out a long breath of relief.
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This edition published by
Prologue Books
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
4700 East Galbraith Road
Cincinnati, Ohio 45236
www.prologuebooks.com
Copyright © 1959 by Talmage Powell, Registration Renewed 1987
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-3692-9
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-3692-2