by Jaye Watson
She knew her mouth was working like a stranded fish's. The deep breath she finally forced into her lungs was almost all she could manage. "Harry?" she gasped.
"We're pretty sure he's still alive."
"Because you haven't found his body?"
"Yes."
She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to curse. Instead she stood and pulled her hands free from his. "I think I'd know if he were dead," she said, with surety. "You'll keep me apprised?"
"I will."
There seemed nothing else to say. After a few moments, he nodded and left.
For a long time she stood there in the hall, staring out through the stained glass fanlight. The green panel made the world look rich and verdant, the yellow turned it golden, as if a faery wand had blessed it.
And the red panel, it made the deep pink trusses on the big rhody in the front yard look like clots of blood.
"No. He's alive. I know he's alive, and he'll be found."
He had to be. She had just realized she loved him.
About the Author
Jaye Watson is the alter ego of a sweet little old lady who doesn't want her grandchildren to know what dark and bloody thoughts she harbors in her heart of hearts. She would rather write about serial killers than romantic lovers, and much prefers a good treatise on deadly poisons to any collection of homestyle recipes. For amusement, Jaye plots new and different ways to kill off the people who cut in front of her in grocery lines and crowd her on the freeway.
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