by Edie Claire
She considered. "Both. It’s about keeping promises. Surely you can understand that."
He studied her for a long time. He couldn’t take his eyes away. How could she lie to him so coolly, over and over, and yet at times like this act so forthright? He was used to women who played games, who never said what they meant, who expected him to guess what they were thinking. But Sarah didn’t do that. He was beginning to believe, despite his every self-protective instinct, that her true nature was indeed forthright—that her lies were the aberration.
Could he test his theory? If he asked the socially awkward question he wanted to ask, would she hide her eyes and talk around it, or would she give him a straight answer?
"I can respect a person who keeps their promises," he replied. "Provided those promises don’t hurt anyone. But there are some things I’d still like to get straight."
She braced herself, her eyes wary. "Like what?"
He took a breath. "Like why you were so anxious to get rid of me earlier. And why you changed your mind."
She replied with a level gaze. "I had something I needed to do, and I wanted to be alone. When I finished, I was upset. I was hoping you could cheer me up. You’re terribly good at that, you know."
She smiled at him, and he smiled back. But he wasn’t finished. His eyes held hers. "What is it you really want from me, Sarah?"
She looked uncomfortable, but after a moment’s thought, she answered him. "Most of my motives are selfish. You make me laugh, and I need to laugh right now. And when you hold me, I feel safe. I like that feeling, and I’d like more of it. But on the unselfish side, I’d like to think that you enjoy my company, too. That being with me makes you feel a little less lonely."
Damnation. His heartbeat quickened. She was being honest with him. He could feel it. Maybe her lies did all relate to keeping promises. Maybe she hadn’t been raped. Maybe hidden behind her soft language about companionship lay an attraction—both physical and emotional—that was as strong as his.
Maybe there was hope.
He stepped forward and took her hands in his own. He couldn’t hold back everything that was on his mind much longer. He had to confront her with what he knew.
"Sarah, I know that you’ve been trying to figure out exactly where the bypass goes," he began. "I think you’re afraid that something at the house will be discovered, because you’re afraid it will put you in danger. I want you to tell me what that is."
The effect of his words hit him like kickback from a pistol. Sarah’s eyes widened with terror. Her beautiful chest heaved with rapid, heavy breaths; her shoulders shuddered. She pulled her hands away as if he had burned them. Her low voice cracked on the single syllable she managed to utter.
"No!" She whirled away from him and started toward the steps, but she didn’t get far. He was behind her in an instant, taking her hand again, pulling her back.
"Sarah, wait! I’m sorry," he apologized. "Please, don’t leave now. I won’t ask you anything else, I promise."
She turned to face him. Her eyes were moist even as they flashed with aggravation. "You promised that once already."
He took a deep breath. He continued to hold her hand. "I said I would try. And I did. But whatever is torturing you, I want to help you get past it. Can’t you understand that? I can’t just sit back and watch it eat you alive. And don’t think my motives are all ministerial and noble, because they aren’t. Not by a long shot. I’d love nothing better than to hold you all day long—and all night too, for that matter—but the fact is, I’m not that easy. I want more from you, Sarah. I want you to tell me what’s bothering you. I want you to let me help!"
Her eyes moved to the floor. She stood still a long time, her breathing still rapid. He had no idea what she was thinking, but he was glad that, at least, she did not pull back her hand. Finally she managed one long, slow breath. Then she turned to face him.
"So what you’re telling me," she said, her voice still hoarse with emotion, even as her face brightened to half a smile, "is that the milk isn’t free. Prospective customers have to buy the cow."
His eyebrows rose. The woman did cut to the chase. He liked that.
He really liked that.
He grinned back. "That’s about the size of it, yes."
She narrowed her eyes. "Bit of a role reversal, wouldn’t you say?"
"What are you, sexist?"
She studied him thoughtfully. "My loss," she whispered.
She was about to say something else when the doorbell rang. He had never been less happy to see a pizza man.
***
"So you see," Adam continued, polishing off the last piece of sausage, "for a mainline Protestant denomination, Methodism is very inclusive."
"Unless you believe in reincarnation as a cactus."
"Yes, well, then I would refer you to my fine colleagues over at the Unitarian church," he offered, smiling at her. He couldn’t help but smile at her. They’d just had one of the more enjoyable theological discussions he’d ever experienced over take-out pizza, and he had experienced quite a few. Why she had suddenly become so willing to engage in shop talk, he had no idea. But the more she dragged out the meal, picking at her pizza and taking only minute sips of her slowly disappearing drink, the more certain he became that she didn’t want to leave. Or that she was afraid to go back home.
The distinction might be significant.
All of a sudden she stood. "Well," she said with undisguised chagrin, "I guess I’ve wasted enough of your time. I’d better be going."
He stood with her. "You’re not wasting my time. What’s the hurry?"
She didn’t answer. She took her glass into his kitchen and set it on the counter by the sink, then moved into the living room, gazing out the window that faced her own house. "Thanks for having dinner with me. And for giving me the chance to get your theology straightened out."
He grinned as he joined her. "You wish."
He was standing there beside her, watching her, admiring her long lashes and the soft curve of her cheekbone, when her face suddenly blanched. He thought at first that she was passing out again, but her eyes didn’t close. Instead they widened to saucers, and she drew in a breath with an audible shudder.
His eyes followed hers out the window.
A police cruiser from the township was drifting by. It made a one-eighty in the cul-de-sac, then came to rest just short of Sarah’s driveway. The patrolman inside rested his left arm out the open window. He fidgeted with something in the seat.
Adam looked back at Sarah. She was staring at the car as if it were a monster.
His head began to swim. An icy chill pervaded his chest. "Sarah?" he asked quietly. "Is something the matter?"
She didn’t move. Didn’t answer. She barely even seemed to be breathing.
"Sarah?"
A motor revved, and Adam returned his gaze to the window. The policeman had both hands on the wheel again. He was driving away. He cruised slowly back up the street and out of sight.
"I’m sorry," Sarah answered, her voice artificially light. "My mind wandered. Did you say something?"
Adam’s chest felt heavy. As heavy as if his heart had just been wrenched out and replaced with solid lead.
The patrolman hadn’t been stopping at Sarah’s house. He had been stopping to light a cigarette, unwrap a piece of gum, pick his teeth—any of the six million reasons that cops on patrol pulled over now and then. Adam had seen them pause in the cul-de-sac many times before. Often he’d gone out to chat with them.
But Sarah had thought the car was stopping at her house. And the prospect had terrified her.
No. It couldn’t be. Sarah’s secrets, her "promises," could not be about a crime. Not a real crime. She had been a victim. She was running from a person, not the law.
Nausea enveloped him. What had happened in that accursed house of hers? How had her sister died, and what exactly was Sarah afraid the construction would reveal?
What had she done?
"I’d really bette
r go now," she said in a clipped tone, turning away from him. "I could use a good night’s sleep."
For several seconds, he couldn’t move. She had his front door open before he caught up with her. But he did catch up with her, wresting the door from her grasp and closing it again. He put his hands on her upper arms and turned her to face him.
He looked straight into her exquisite almond eyes, and he kept looking into them. He looked as deeply as any mortal could possibly look, and he didn’t stop until he had noted every nuance, scrutinized every glimmer. He wanted to find something; he had to find something. He could not be wrong about her.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
Adam relaxed his hold on her arms. He realized he’d been gripping too tightly. But she hadn’t complained. Not about that.
"What’s wrong?" she repeated.
He let out a long, slow breath. It was all right. He hadn’t been wrong about her. Whatever horrors had ravaged her young life, whatever guilt and fear she’d been carrying ever since and whatever delusions that burden had wrought, he was sure of one thing. Sarah Landers’ heart was right. For all her lies, all her bravado, the spirit inside her was gentle. She had a conscience. She knew love.
She was a good person.
Right now, it was the only thing that mattered.
"Nothing’s wrong," he answered. His voice sounded unsteady. He fixed it. "I’m just trying to think of a way to get you to stay longer."
She smiled a little.
The sight warmed him.
She might think she had something to fear from the police. But she had to be mistaken. She was young when it happened, now she was confused. She needed to confide in someone who could help her sort it out.
That was all.
"I’ve been analyzing you," he continued, making his tone playful. "And I’ve decided your weakness is your competitive streak. So how about I crush you at backgammon?"
She smiled sadly. "Sorry. I don’t know how to play."
"Perhaps a game of chess, then? I figure I could polish you off in twenty minutes, tops."
Her smile broadened. "I’ll take you down in ten."
Chapter 25
"There you are! I hope you’re feeling better this morning. They told me you had a rough afternoon yesterday."
Sarah smiled at the retired professor who worked the library’s reference desk part-time. He reminded her of her long-deceased maternal grandfather. "I’m feeling much better today, thank you."
"Good, good." He turned around in his swivel chair and lifted a book from a shelf behind him. "I thought you’d want to know as soon as this came in. I saw you’d put a rush on it."
"I appreciate your calling me. Thank you." Sarah extended her arms, breath held. He placed the thick, spiral-bound book into her hands.
"Interesting stuff, there. You writing a novel?"
She let out a nervous laugh. "Now, don’t let that get around. It’s a secret."
He chuckled. "No one will hear it from me. I’ve got a few half-finished books in my own desk drawers."
She slipped the book into her briefcase and cast a glance over her shoulder. Adam was nowhere in sight. He had stayed in the car as she’d requested, thank goodness. If she’d had her druthers he wouldn’t be here at all, but when she’d warned him she would be out for a while he had absolutely refused to let her call a cab.
She thanked the man once more and headed back outside. She had been up for hours, but her mind still seemed oddly detached from her body. A late night of competitive gaming with Adam, a glass of warm milk, the maximum dose of allergy medicine, and twenty billion jumping sheep had failed to produce the sound sleep she had so desperately needed. Instead she had woken up repeatedly, plagued with nightmares she was still trying to forget.
Adam’s car was waiting for her at the curb. She stepped in, and he pulled away. "Did you get it?"
She started, still adrift in her fog. "Get what?"
"Whatever it was you needed," he answered, his voice heavy.
Her own heart sank. He knew that she had been lying to him again. Not lying exactly, but withholding the truth. She had told him she needed to pick up something at the library, but she had refused to say what, or why. She had no reason to feel guilty about that, but seeing the hurt in his eyes felt like taking a fist in the gut, regardless.
They had had a wonderful evening together last night. She had worked hard to make it so, and it had ended amicably, if not as affectionately as she might have liked. But this morning he seemed unusually preoccupied—and discouraged. She reminded herself, over and over, that her secrecy was for his benefit as well as her own—that the truth would only hurt him more.
"Yes, I got it," she answered, taking a stab at cheerfulness. "It looks like I’ll be spending a quiet day reading. You should approve of that. What’s on your agenda?"
"I have a wedding," he answered, his eyes on the road.
The dullness of his tone disturbed her. "You don’t sound too excited about it. Don’t you like marrying people?"
"Of course I do."
He did a better job of sounding enthused the second time, but Sarah was not convinced. "I suppose weddings must be hard for you," she said sympathetically.
He turned his head and looked at her. She could tell he understood what she meant. Despite all that she was keeping from him, she had noticed how easily he seemed to read her now, and vice versa. It was a curious phenomenon.
"I’m always happy to see a couple who’s right for each other get married," he insisted. "It’s harder when that doesn’t seem to be the case, but as an outsider, you can’t really judge something like that. It’s hard enough for the couple to know."
The continued melancholy of his voice was out of character, and Sarah wondered, suddenly, if he’d gotten any more sleep than she had. She also wondered whether his last statement referred to any couple in particular. But she didn’t have the chance to ask.
"In any event," he finished, "I’m afraid I won’t be around most of the day. But Rose is all set to harass you in my absence, so don’t get any ideas."
Sarah smiled superficially. She did have ideas. But they were hardly pleasurable ones. The research she had to conduct today might very well deepen her ulcer to the bleeding point.
The trip home passed quietly. Adam walked Sarah to her door, where she thanked him for the ride and made her standard, token effort at convincing him not to worry about her. He then made his at convincing her that wasn’t possible. All too soon, she was alone again.
She settled onto her couch and unfastened the briefcase. Adam had looked at the worn black case suspiciously, but though she was certain he had guessed its purpose, he hadn’t said anything.
She opened the lid and lifted out the book. Its loosely bound pages buckled in her hands, and a faint brown stain marred its plain white cover. Guide to Underwater Investigations. She could not risk Adam’s having so much as a glance at that title, not with everything he had pieced together already. She knew now just how much sharper he was than his happy-go-lucky manner would indicate. If he could defeat her in a fair game of chess—which, much to her annoyance, he repeatedly had—she could not put anything past him.
She closed her eyes a moment, steeling her resolve. Then she opened the book and began to read.
***
Sarah held the closed book in her lap. For a long time now she had lain motionless, staring at the ceiling. She had tried to sit up once, but the room had spun, and she had no need of additional nausea. The information she had gleaned from the text had already provided the equivalent of ipecac.
Bones. Skeletal remains did decay underwater, with time. But how much time was affected by far too many variables for comfort. Had the body remained exposed to the water, or had the entire mass sunk deep into the muck, encasing the bones in a blanket of silt that could preserve them almost indefinitely?
She didn’t know.
There might be nothing left of Rock Rockney. But there could just as
easily be bones. And bones, in even half-decent condition, might be all it took to establish a cause of death.
She no longer bothered trying to banish the images. They had become rooted in front of her eyes—agitating her heart, souring her stomach. The back of Rock’s head had been covered with a sea of blood, but still, she had seen the indentation. The onyx elephant had fractured his skull. And there was no way such a wound could be self-inflicted.
Timing. Sarah forced her brain to work, forced the gears to turn. She had learned one assuring thing, at least. The timing of Rock’s death would be almost impossible for the authorities to determine—at least from the evidence underwater. Even if something did narrow down that window of possibility to within a week or so, no one could prove he hadn’t died after Dee’s suicide.
Sarah also realized that if she admitted any knowledge of his disposition, there wasn’t a tale she could tell that could protect either her or her sister. Even if she was willing to sacrifice everything for Dee’s sake—claim that she had acted alone, that her sister had already died—the authorities would not be convinced. No 110-pound seventeen-year-old girl could have done such a deed without help. No tweaking of facts, no tearful confession, could prevent the nightmarish publicity, the speculation, the charges.
The punishment.
She could not say anything. Anything at all. The truth might be found out anyway. But then again, it might not. For now, silence seemed her best gamble, if not her only hope. Her only chance to preserve any semblance of the life she had built for herself.
Assuming she deserved it.
The doorbell rang. For once, she didn’t startle at its volume. Her nerves seemed past such a normal, healthy response; dispassionate analysis was all she could muster. Most likely, Adam had dropped over on his way out—perhaps to admonish her once again not to leave the house alone. Or else, Rose was checking in early.
She roused herself from the couch. She carried the book into the bedroom, buried it on the bottom of her bedside stack, and closed the door behind her. Then she crossed to her front door and opened it.
