Sadly, she was beginning to recognize that even before Kevin became physically abusive, he had been abusive and controlling in a different way. He was possessive—overly so, she realized now. At first it felt good to belong to someone. To have someone care where she was every minute and whether she was his one and only. Reality punched her as she remembered her old suspicions: while she had been his one and only, she wasn’t sure he had always been faithful to her.
But she had always thought deep down that Kevin needed her, so she exchanged that feeling of belonging for her freedom. Her mind told her it was a good thing, but her heart wasn’t altogether sure about the trade-off. She could die tomorrow, and there would be no one at her funeral. Oh, sure, Wren and Bart might come—and even Trevor. But they wouldn’t even have her real name to put on a gravestone.
A psychedelic screensaver popped up on the computer—stars twinkling on a midnight field. Maggie sat staring at it. She thought of a scene from a movie she’d once seen. An astronaut, tethered to his spaceship, ventured out to make repairs. But the line snapped, and the poor man drifted away, watching his spaceship—and his chance of being rescued—grow smaller and smaller until it disappeared and he was an insignificant dot in the universe.
That’s how she felt right now. There were very few people to whom she mattered, and not one of them even knew where she was right now. It hurt to remember back to a time when she and Jenn and Mom were a family. She’d thought about God then. Even prayed to Him sometimes. She rubbed her temples, trying to dismiss the thoughts. It hurt too much to think about those days.
Maybe she should go back. To New York. This was too hard. Unless she got work at the gallery—and that would only be part-time—she had struck out with the job search today. Wren had warned her that Saturday wasn’t a good day to look for work in Clayburn, but Maggie couldn’t help feeling anxious. Wren said she didn’t need to worry about paying for her room, but they weren’t going to let her stay here for free indefinitely. And by the time she bought a few days’ worth of groceries, she’d be flat broke. She could make Wren’s sandwiches last a couple of days. She was used to eating light, thanks to Kevin’s fear that she might put on a pound or two. But eventually she’d have to have some way to support herself.
Though she knew the odds were slim of Jenn’s answering immediately, she checked e-mail one more time. Last she’d heard, her sister didn’t usually work on Saturdays, but if Mark was without a job, maybe Jenn was putting in some extra hours. She felt a twinge of disappointment when her e-mail box was empty this time.
She may as well go back to the inn. Maybe she could come up with a game plan. Or at least arrange some way to stay on at Wren’s until she could check out other job possibilities on Monday.
She started to log out of the e-mail program, but before she clicked the mouse, a bank ad popped up on the sidebar of the Hotmail page. It wasn’t the bank Kevin used, but it gave her an idea. What if she could access his bank account online? She thought Kevin had transferred money that way from time to time, but though he was happy to have her pay the bills and balance the checkbook, he’d never trusted her with actual transactions.
On a whim, she typed the name of Kevin’s bank in New York into the browser’s search field. A complex Web site opened, and she navigated through a labyrinth of links, her mind churning. If it weren’t for Kevin, she would still have her job and access to her own bank account. What a fool she had been to merge what little savings she’d accumulated into his retirement fund. How easily he’d convinced her it was the right thing to do.
The more miles and hours that separated them, the more clearly she saw the ways he’d manipulated and coerced her into things that seemed utterly foolish now. If there was a way to somehow get into his account, she could almost justify withdrawing funds. She wouldn’t take more than the amount she’d turned over to him. She didn’t want his money. But the funds from her savings were rightfully hers. It was only eight hundred dollars, but right now that seemed like a small fortune. She calculated how many nights she could stay at Wren’s with eight hundred dollars, then laughed at herself. She could pay a whole month’s rent somewhere with that amount—and have money to spare. That would give her plenty of time to find a job.
Her hands trembling, she clicked on a link titled Security. How far could she go trying to get into Kevin’s account before she set off a red flag somewhere?
She shoved down the fear that crawled up her throat as she skimmed the text on the screen in front of her. It was all about encryption and firewalls and a complicated network of other terms that might as well have been Chinese for what she understood of them.
There was a toll-free number listed to call with questions. But the account was in Kevin’s name alone. She didn’t even have the authority to sign his checks for the apartment bills. Every month she’d written out checks for the bills and turned them over to him to sign. He didn’t trust her to stay within his budget.
Or had he somehow known the day would come when she would need access to this account? Had he known she would someday find a way to escape his grasp?
She stared at the link labeled Log in. Holding her breath, she clicked on it. A series of boxes appeared, asking for a User ID and a password. She put his name in the field labeled User ID.
She had no idea what his password was. She typed in the numbers of his birth date. Her hand hovered over the keyboard before she summoned the courage to click Submit.
A new page started to load, but it contained a message in red letters: User ID and password are invalid. Please try again.
She tried again with a different password—her birthday—and got the same message, with a link to have the password sent. Of course if she did that, it would be sent to Kevin’s office and he would know what she was trying to do.
She knew Kevin’s e-mail address at work. Maybe that was what was supposed to go in the User ID space? She tried that. This time the message merely said the password was invalid. She must have the User ID right. She tried other passwords. The anniversary of the day they met. The day she moved in with him. It was crazy, trying to pull a password out of thin air. They’d never celebrated these dates. She doubted Kevin even knew them, but she couldn’t think of any other combinations to try.
On the fifth try, a new message appeared, printed in larger letters over a triangular warning symbol. For security purposes, this account has been temporarily suspended. Call the number below to reactivate your account.
Her blood ran cold. Could the bank detect when someone was trying to access an account? Might they flag her attempts to access Kevin’s account and report it to him? She’d read news accounts of criminals being tracked by their computer usage.
Her pulse revved. She shoved away from the desk, almost toppling the chair in the process. At the commotion, a nearby library patron looked up from his book to glare at her.
She hurried from the building, stopping at the bottom of the steps to catch her breath. Forcing herself to walk at a normal pace, she headed back to the inn, but it was all she could do not to break into a run. She stole a glance over her shoulder at each crosswalk, feeling almost as though she were being tailed. Kevin Bryson still had a hold on her, even a thousand miles away.
Trevor’s truck was parked in front of the inn when she got back. The lobby felt like a sanctuary after worrying all the way home. All desire for a walk in the park was gone. All she wanted to do now was escape to the safety of her room.
She heard Trevor hammering in the kitchen, but she wasn’t in the mood to talk. She tried to escape down the hall, but he appeared in the arched doorway. “Oh, I thought you were Wren. Do you know where she is?”
“Bart took her to the movies in Salina. Said she needed to get out.”
“He was probably trying to get her off my back.”
She grinned back. “I’d say that was a good move on Bart’s part.”
He chuckled in agreement. “Hey, would you mind giving me a hand for a minute? Real quic
k?”
“Sure.” Maggie followed him into the kitchen, which looked more like a demolition site right now. He once again had all the appliances unplugged and scooted away from the walls. If anything, he appeared to be losing ground on this project. She scanned the room and shook her head. “Man, I don’t want to be here when Wren sees this.”
He propped his fists on his waist and trailed her gaze. “I know. That’s why I was hoping you could help me out. I need to measure for some trim.” He held out a bulky tape measure. “Can you hold one end for me?”
“Okay.” She gripped the end he handed her, and they worked together measuring, Trevor stopping to jot numbers down on a little notepad.
“Thanks,” he said when they were finished. “If I can get this one wall finished, I can at least move the appliances back until I can get around to painting.”
“Is it ready to paint?”
“The kitchen part is. But I need to tape everything in here first.” He indicated the dining area.
She looked around the room. “Do you have the paint?”
He crossed the room in half a dozen easy strides and hoisted a leftover sheet of drywall, revealing two gallon pails of paint on the floor. He leaned the bulky Sheetrock against the wall they’d just measured.
“If you’re ready, I’d be glad to help paint. It’s been awhile, but my sister and I painted her whole apartment a couple of years ago, and it turned out pretty good.”
He seemed to be considering her offer. “You really wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m bombing out finding a real job, so I may as well pitch in here. We could probably do this wall in an hour or two and get everything moved back before Wren gets home.”
His eyes lit. “Hey, if you’re serious, I’ll take you up on that. Wren will kiss the ground you walk on if she comes home tonight to a kitchen she can actually work in.”
“Let’s do it.” She looked down at her clothes. “Hang on. I’d better go change. This is the only decent thing I have to wear to job interviews Monday.”
“Here.” Trevor grabbed a rumpled flannel shirt that was draped over the stepladder. “You can wear this. Doesn’t look like much, but it’s clean.” He touched a splotch of dried Spackle on one sleeve and gave a sheepish smile. “Well, it’s not sweaty anyway.”
She reached for the shirt. “Thanks.”
He grinned. “You’re on your own in the pants department though. Sorry.”
“I’ll be right back.” She trotted down the hall to her room with renewed purpose.
Kicking off her shoes, she hurriedly grabbed the capris Wren had given her. She changed into them and stretched Trevor’s shirt over them as far as it would go. She’d have to take her chances that she wouldn’t get paint on her good clothes.
A strange elation welled within her chest. It felt good to be able to help someone. Especially someone who appreciated it so much. Trevor—and Wren too. Maggie smiled, imagining the glow on the woman’s face when she came home to a freshly painted kitchen with all her appliances plugged into the proper outlets and in working order.
Sitting on the side of the bed to retie her shoes, Maggie leaned in to read the alarm clock on the nightstand. Maybe Bart would take Wren out to a nice sit-down restaurant and buy them another hour. Maybe there was a way to call him. She’d ask Trevor, but she somehow doubted Bart was the type to carry a cell phone.
It was almost four o’clock. They’d have to hurry to be finished before the couple got home, but it could be done. She ran into the bathroom and gathered her hair into a ponytail, then hurried out to the dining room. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she ran. It was a sensation she remembered from being on a tight deadline at the design firm. It was a good feeling.
She stopped painting in midstroke, a gleam of curiosity in her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Trevor pried open the paint can with a screwdriver and set it on a canvas tarp on the floor in front of Meg.
“Ooh, what a gorgeous color.” Meg peered into the bucket of paint as if she were gazing into a wishing well.
He watched her face, enjoying the excitement in her expression, and trying not to notice that she managed to make his ratty flannel shirt look like a million bucks and then some.
She dipped a paint stick into the butter-colored paint and stirred for a minute, then held the stick up to the light. “It’s perfect for this room. The way the sun comes through those windows in the morning, it’ll just glow.”
She must have sensed his amusement. Head tipped, she crinkled her brow. “What?”
“Oh . . . nothing.”
“No, what? You were thinking something.”
He grinned. “It’s just that . . . well, not too many women get that worked up over a can of yellow paint.”
“I love color,” she said simply. “And this is a great shade. Is this the only brush you have?” She picked up a brush with a rusted ferrule and examined the bristles.
“Hang on.” He went to Wren’s supply closet behind the check-in counter and rummaged around until he found two other paintbrushes.
“Are these better?”
She took them from him and swished the bristles against her palm. “Ah . . . much. Thanks.”
“And you’re right, this is a good color. It’ll catch the sunlight in the morning, but it won’t be too gaudy in the evening either.” He affected a swagger. “I picked it out myself.”
“Really? Where did you learn about color?” She studied him for a second, then answered her own question. “Oh . . . the print shop.”
“Well, yes. There. But I took a couple of art classes in junior college too. But mostly trial and error.” He stripped off a length of painter’s masking tape that hadn’t adhered tightly enough to the baseboard and wadded it into a tight ball. “My dad and my uncle started the shop thirty-some years ago, and I worked there all through high school—when I wasn’t playing basketball.”
She rolled her eyes comically. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those jocks?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Okay, I won’t tell you.”
“But you are,” she deadpanned.
“Was.” He aimed the balled-up tape at the trash can in the corner and swished the shot.
“Nope.” She shook her head and pointed at the trash can. “See there. Once a jock, always a jock.”
Conceding her point with a wry smile—and a healthy dose of pride—he grabbed the roll of masking tape and redid the baseboard. “There. That should do it in here.” He ripped the end of the strip from the roll and stood back to look for any other spots he’d missed. Satisfied, he turned to Meg. “Paint away.”
She rubbed her hands together like a ten-year-old at the front gates of Disneyland. He smiled and put aside the twinge of guilt he felt for allowing her to help with his job.
He carried the smaller stepladder over from the dining area. “Here, you’ll need this.”
“Thanks.” She climbed to the third rung and situated the paint can on the ladder’s shelf.
He watched for a minute while Meg stroked the creamy paint along the line where the wall met the ceiling. Her work was meticulous. Reassured, he went back to taping off the windows and doorways in the dining area across the room. He kept a watchful eye on her as they each worked their way around respective sections of the wall, but it didn’t take him long to see that he’d negotiated a good “hire.”
Jasper wandered into the room and made a beeline for Meg’s ladder. The cat stood under the bottom rung looking up at her. When she ignored him, he pawed the air and gave a series of short mews.
“Hey, kitty.” Paintbrush aloft, she peered down and cooed at him. “Where have you been hiding? You’d better go on if you don’t want paint on your tail. Go on, buddy. Go on now.” She tried to dissuade him with baby talk, but Jasper ignored her and plopped down on the drop cloth directly under the ladder.
Meg gave a soft sigh and climbed down from her perch. She scoope
d up the cat and nuzzled her nose into his fur. “Come here, kitty. You could get into all kinds of trouble in here.”
As she carried him out to the lobby, Trevor heard her talking to him, explaining why he couldn’t be in the kitchen and trying to convince him to lie down on the love seat in the lobby. “See, buddy. It’s nice and sunny here. Come on now. That’s a good kitty cat.”
He smiled even as a memory pricked his consciousness. Amy, trying to coerce Trev to lie down for his afternoon nap.
She appeared in the doorway, brushing off her hands.
“How long do you think that will last?”
She shrugged, then looked away quickly. But not before Trevor noticed her eyes were red rimmed and teary.
“Are you allergic to cats?”
“No.” She picked up her paintbrush.
Had she been crying? He scrambled to fill the awkward silence. “So you didn’t have much luck on your job search, huh?” His voice echoed through the open space, louder than he intended. And only after the words were out did he realize how they sounded. Good grief! Was this his idea of comforting a tearful woman? He was seriously out of practice.
But Meg climbed the ladder and resumed painting, as if nothing had passed between them. Maybe he’d only imagined the tears.
She painted for a minute before she turned to him from her perch on the ladder. “I have one job possibility,” she said, seeming perfectly composed again. “It’s only part-time though. Wren said I might have better luck looking on Monday.”
“That’s probably true. Did you try the Dairy Barn?”
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