by Rebecca York
He ran a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t know,” he said in a low voice. Then, “What else do you remember? Did you see the guy’s face?”
“Just his hand.”
“Did you see where he was? Anything you can tell me about his location that will help us find him?”
She tried to give him what he wanted, tried to come up with details. “It was a tight focus. I knew he was looking at my picture. In a book. The book was on a table. I could see a cigarette burn in the wood. Then when he touched me—touched the picture,” she clarified, “I didn’t see anything else. I just felt him.” She shuddered, not expecting him to understand how awful it had been to feel those fingers crawling over her flesh like thousands of insect feet.
“So you don’t have any clues besides a cigarette burn on the table that could help us figure out who he is?” he asked, and she caught a note of accusation in his voice.
“I can’t choose what I see and feel in a vision.” Since that first time when she’d seen her father’s truck go off the road, she’d never talked about what happened when these strange episodes took her over. Not to anyone. Certainly not to her parents after their reaction to what had happened. There had been no one she’d trusted with her fragile emotions. Now Cal was forcing her to describe the experience. Fumbling for words, she added, “I’m not like one of those psychics who leads people to kidnapped children or bodies buried in the woods. But that wouldn’t make any difference to you. You’d still doubt the story I just told you.”
“Something frightening happened to you. That’s obvious.”
“Right. A psychotic break.”
“Stop it!”
She stared at him, seeing the concern and uncertainty warring in his eyes. She wanted to make demands then. At the very least, she wanted to hear him say he believed her. That he didn’t think she was wacko. That he didn’t think she was so needy that she’d made up the contact. But she was afraid to ask for reassurances, so she simply kept her mouth closed.
When he spoke, it was to ask another question. “How often do you experience this sort of thing?”
Again, he was posing a question nobody else had ever asked. “There’s no regular schedule. I can go for months, years, without anything strange happening. I’ve never had anything like this twice in three days. Never before.”
“Do you have any explanation?”
She gave her head a firm shake. “I’ve never had any explanation. I just want it to leave me alone!”
“Okay. I can see you’re upset. I’ll go out and bring in my stuff—if that’s okay.”
“It’s fine!” she snapped, then made an attempt to control the tone of her voice as she added, “I’ve changed the sheets on the bed in the room on the right at the top of the stairs. You can put your things up there.”
“Thanks.”
Emotions roiled through her as he turned and headed for the door. She was relieved he had the sense to give her some breathing space. At the same time she was thinking that bringing in his clothing made this whole marriage charade seem real.
As soon as he was out of the room, Beth pushed herself off the sofa, then walked rapidly down the hall to the kitchen. Bending, she righted the chair she’d tipped over, carefully setting the legs against the floor. Then she knelt beside the table and started picking up the green-bean stems that had scattered in all directions.
She’d told Cal that her quota of weird experiences had escalated since the night with Hallie. She could have said that they’d escalated since he’d first come out here. But she saw no advantage in tying those facts together for his benefit.
A few minutes later, Cal appeared in the doorway. Ignoring him, she kept working. Silently, he knelt beside her, helping her put the stems back into the bowl.
Neither of them spoke as they finished the task. Then she washed her hands, sat down at the table and began snapping more beans, working with ruthless efficiency.
Cal washed his hands, dried them on the dish towel, then pulled out a chair. “Can I help you do that?”
“You don’t have to.”
“Show me what to do. I don’t want to make extra work for you because I’m here.”
“It’s not rocket science.” She demonstrated how to snap the end off a bean with one hand while she used the opposite thumb to break the bean in half.
He laughed. “It may not be rocket science, but you’re going to have to slow down a little so I can see how you’re doing all that in one blinding motion.”
For a few minutes, they focused on the bean-snapping lesson. She’d never thought of what she did in the kitchen as anything unusual. Not until she watched him fumble to get it right.
His efforts barely augmented the pile of beans going into the pot. But her own efficient motions helped her get back her sense of balance.
“Dinner smells good,” he commented.
“It’s just a roast,” she answered, transferring the beans to a pot of water she’d started boiling on the stove.
“For me, that’s a pretty fancy home-cooked meal. Dad never made one. He was more the hamburger-on-the-grill type.”
“You lived with your dad?”
“Yeah, he got custody of me when I was nine months old.”
“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Well, my old lady deserted us. It wasn’t too hard to convince the courts that she wasn’t a fit parent.”
“Oh,” she answered as she set the pot of beans on a burner.
“You lived here with your parents?” he asked, switching the conversation away from himself.
Granger came into the kitchen, pushed his dish with his nose to tell her he needed water.
“Yes,” she answered as she washed out the bowl and filled it again. “They were pretty old when they had me. Dad died before I graduated from high school. Mom passed away five years ago. What about your dad? Is he still living?”
“He died a couple of months ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded, his gaze fixed on the dog.
She measured out dog food from the large metal container in the pantry, the one Mom had used to boil home-cured hams.
“Let me give him the food,” Cal said.
Understanding why he’d made the request, she handed him the dish, and he set it on the floor. Granger started eagerly chomping, his noisy eating filling the silence.
“Did you have a dog when you were a kid?” she asked.
“There was always a mutt around. None quite as distinctive-looking as Granger.”
She nodded, then went back to work. While she drained the beans, cooled them under cold running water and made the dressing for the bean salad, Cal set the table. As far as she could tell, he was acting as if nothing unusual had happened when he’d come charging into the kitchen. Which was good, she supposed.
When she took the pan out of the oven and set it on the stove, his eyes widened as he stared at the perfectly roasted meat surrounded by crisp, golden potatoes and tender carrots.
“That looks even better than it smelled in the oven.”
Trying not to let the praise swell her head, she carved slices of meat and arranged them with the vegetables on a platter. Then she finished the bean salad.
They took chairs at opposite sides of the table. It was strange to glance up from her plate and find this particular man sitting across the table from her. As though they really were married, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking.
She was about to sink into a little fantasy about that until she brought herself up short. She’d better not enjoy this too much. He might like her cooking, but the only reason he was here was that he wanted her help catching a serial killer. A killer who had focused his attention on her not long ago.
That realization sent a nasty shiver slithering down her spine. Looking up quickly, she saw that Cal was watching her and knew that he’d caught the reaction.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
&nbs
p; “Something,” he corrected.
She looked down at her plate, pushing a couple of green beans around with her fork.
“Beth, if we’re going to work together, we have to communicate with each other.”
She swallowed, then raised her head. “Okay, I was thinking about your assignment. Then I was thinking about what happened just before you got here. I mean, the feeling of being touched.” She stopped, closing her fingers around the handle of her fork. “I guess that means the killer was focused on me.”
“Not necessarily. It could be somebody else.”
“Like who?”
“Like anybody,” he answered as if they were having a normal, rational conversation.
“Then why did I feel…like I was being pawed?” She didn’t go into any more detail because she didn’t want to think about the experience again.
“It could be that you’re hypersensitive,” he said slowly. “Because of what’s happened to your friend.”
Again she fought the impulse to ask if his comment meant he believed her. “Maybe,” she murmured, silently conceding that he could be right. She’d never been in quite this state, so she had no idea what to expect.
Picking up her knife, she cut off a piece of meat and forked it into her mouth. Cal did the same.
“So, I looked you up on the Web,” he said.
Her head jerked up. “You did?”
“Yes. You’re a weaver with an international reputation.”
She could only nod.
“Your work is beautiful. Where do you get your ideas?”
She was pleased by his interest until she reminded herself that the question was just part of his assignment. “I don’t know. They come to me. A lot of times the inspiration is from nature, like the hanging I’m doing now. Other times I’m just playing around with color combinations or shapes.”
“You obviously have a talent for it.”
The compliment was gratifying. So was his enthusiasm for her dinner. He put away a considerable portion of meat and vegetables before pushing back his chair and sighing. “That was a great meal. I guess there are some advantages to this job.”
“I hope so,” she murmured, then felt her face heat, wondering if she’d implied too much by the answer.
His voice turned businesslike again. “We need to talk about how we’re going to work together,” he told her as they cleared the table.
“Do you want to do it over coffee and cookies?”
“I won’t turn down that offer.”
She made coffee and set the pot on a tray, along with cups, plates and the chocolate chip squares she’d baked that afternoon in honor of the occasion.
After polishing off one of the cookies, he set another on his plate, then cleared his throat.
“For, uh, our marriage act to work, we’ve got to look like we’re comfortable with each other,” he said.
“That’s a tall order, since I wasn’t comfortable with the idea from the beginning.”
“I figure if we hang around together for a while, that will help.”
“Are you going to sit and watch me weave?”
“I’d like to.”
“We’ll see.” She cleared her throat. “So what am I supposed to tell people about the mysterious stranger in my life?” she asked, unable to actually say the word husband. “How did I meet you? Why did I marry you?”
“I came out here because you answered an ad for financial planning. We hit it off and ended up tying the knot.”
“What company?”
He pulled a card from his pocket. It was a different card from the one he’d given her on his first visit. This one said Alliance Financial Services.
“What if somebody calls the number?”
“They’ll get an answering machine. I’ll pick up the messages, make some appointments.”
“You’re going to go through the whole shtick—doing a financial analysis?”
“I did some undercover work in a financial firm. I can pull it off if I have to. But my plan is to come across as so super-slick that nobody will hire me.”
“That will certainly reflect well on me,” she answered dryly.
“It will be a good reason for you to boot me out.”
She gave a tight nod. Then, because she couldn’t bear to sit there facing him, she stood and turned toward the window. To her surprise, she’d been so absorbed in the conversation that she hadn’t noticed the sun setting. It was almost dark outside, and she felt the familiar tug of fear that always grabbed her as the blackness closed in. Automatically, she moved around the room, turning on lamps. Then she walked to the front hall and flipped the switch that activated the floodlights around the house.
OUT IN THE FIELD, a man watched the lights flick on. He knew the range of the illumination, knew where to walk, how close he could come to avoid them. And the dog. Avoiding the dog was another priority.
Beth was a little late tonight. Maybe because of that guy who had come up the driveway and parked in front of her house. The guy who’d carried in a couple of suitcases.
An expletive tumbled from the watcher’s lips.
What the hell did it mean? That guy being here? Were he and Beth lovers?
“No!” He’d damn well know if she had a lover. Maybe the man was an out-of-town relative.
The watcher took an involuntary step forward, then checked himself. Beth had no idea he was out here in the evenings. And he wasn’t going to have her finding out about his after-hours visits—not because some guy was staying with her.
But that was certainly a complication he didn’t like. He’d have to find out who the visitor was and what he was doing there.
Then he’d have to figure out what to do about it. Or maybe the best course was to speed up the timetable he’d set for himself.
Yeah, that was it. Make things happen faster, he thought, a plan starting to solidify in his mind.
Because Beth was his, and if he couldn’t have her, he’d make sure nobody else could, either.
Chapter Five
Cal watched Beth walking around the room turning on lamps as if it were the most natural thing in the world to illuminate the house like the national Christmas tree.
He was even more interested when she hurried down the hall and started flipping more switches. In moments, the area around the house was almost as bright as day.
That certainly wasn’t normal behavior. She was afraid of something, and he was going to find out what.
She came back down the hall, stepped into the parlor and saw him looking at her.
“I was just turning on some lights,” she explained quickly.
“I can see that. But why so many?”
“I—” She stopped, taking her lower lip between her teeth. “I…like to be able to see the yard. And I like it bright in here.”
“Why?” he asked again, letting her know he wasn’t going to accept a simplistic answer.
“Some things happened,” she said in a small voice.
“What things?” he pressed.
“Well…the sheep.” She cleared her throat. “Tim found some of them dead. It looked like they’d gotten into some grass where there was a pesticide spill.”
She’d mentioned the guy before. “Tim Fillmore, the farmer who works for you?”
“Yes.”
“You use pesticide?”
“No. But, uh, but someone could have dumped it on my property. We moved the sheep to a different field.”
“Did you call the police?”
“It didn’t seem like a matter for the police.”
“Uh-huh,” he answered, suggesting mildly that he didn’t share her judgment. “Anything else you haven’t mentioned?”
“No.” The way she looked away was like a sign announcing that she was lying.
He kept his eyes fixed on her. “Come on. What else don’t you think is worth telling me?”
“Well, there was a fire.”
Automatically, he looked around the room for signs o
f damage. “Where?”
“Not in the house. In one of the fields down by the road.”
“And?”
“A thunderstorm put it out.”
“Lucky for you. I suppose you think it was caused by someone tossing a lighted cigarette onto your property?”
“Or a match.”
“Which came first, the sheep poisoning or the fire?” he asked, keeping the questions coming in rapid succession.
“The sheep.”
“And the time frame?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Is this an interrogation?”
“Just answer the question.”
“A year ago.”
“And the fire was?”
“Six months ago.”
“So all this happened after you acquired a bunch of new neighbors in that development down the road?”
“Yes.”
“You have a run-in with any of them?”
“No.”
“And when did you install the outdoor lighting system?” He kept his gaze fixed on her as she crossed to the chair by the fireplace and carefully sat down.
“Eight years ago.”
“Because something happened back then?”
“No. I just felt more…secure with lights around the house.”
“Why?”
“Stop asking me questions with that edge in your voice, like you did the other day.”
“Stop acting like a hostile witness. All I’m trying to do is help you.”
“I don’t need your help.”
He watched her carefully, noted the way her blue eyes flicked away from his gaze, flicked toward the door. Wondering if she was going to try to make a break for it, he stood and moved to the arched doorway so she’d have to dart around him to get out of the room.
As he propped his shoulder against the wall, she sank into her seat looking small and vulnerable and very feminine, and he felt his insides clench. He was going at her like a murder suspect again, when all he was trying to do was help her. Lord, what was it about her that brought out the worst in him?
Softening his voice, he asked, “Why don’t you want to take advantage of the fact that you’ve got an experienced detective willing to help you with something that sounds like an ongoing problem?”
