surrounded by improbable souvenirs, posed and positioned for maximum effect.
What was taking her so long. He wanted to pace but the truck wasn’t quite that big. He drummed his fingers.
Phil had to be in the kitchen by now, surely? He checked his watch and found that precisely two minutes had elapsed since she crossed the threshold. What if she was sickened by what she found?
He should never have let her go.
He gritted his teeth and gave her one more minute.
Just one. The second hand sweep in his watch moved with paralyzing slowness. He lasted a full thirty seconds, then started to climb into the front.
But Phil came out of the house in that very moment. To his astonishment, she looked as cool and as composed as when she entered it. She shrugged and ran her fingers through her keys, an elegant lady disappointed.
He sat back, realizing belatedly that Phil was playing her role, part of a cover story he had pretty much forgotten. But she was evidently made of sterner stuff than that—and a lot less transparent than he remembered. She smoothly slid behind the wheel, started the truck without a word and backed out of the driveway. The only hint that something was amiss was the way she squealed the tires when she shifted into drive.
She said absolutely nothing.
It was as though he had become invisible.
“Well?”
Phil cast him a glance in the rear view mirror that could have frozen his marrow. Her lips tightened and she looked back at the empty road ahead, still without speaking. She turned onto the highway and hit the gas pedal so hard that Nick fell back against the seat.
When he sat up, they were merged into the increasing commuter traffic and headed toward Boston again.
“Aren’t you going to the police station?”
“No.”
There was trouble in that word, big trouble. He had heard women embue a single word with volumes of meaning before and he knew he’d likely hear it again before he died.
But this time, he didn’t know why the woman in question was so angry.
“What do you mean? That was the whole point of this little charade.” He leaned over the front seat. “We need to get the cops. Lucia’s dead!”
“I don’t think so.”
Phil changed lanes with a savage gesture, nearly dispatching a Chevy to the ditch. The driver honked at her, she lifted her chin and put the pedal to the floor. The truck began to rattle, but Phil showed no signs of easing up on the gas. She ducked and weaved between the commuter traffic, her grip so tight on the wheel that her knuckles were white.
He debated the merit of distracting her while she drove like a madwoman. Then she nearly peeled the side off a Cherokee and it didn’t seem as though they had a lot to lose.
“What’s going on? Phil, what did you find?”
That captured her attention, though he had a sense that wasn’t a good thing. One dark brow raised, those snapping baby blues meeting his in the mirror again. “Exactly what you thought I would.”
Her voice was low and dangerous, a trait he had never associated with Phil before.
But then, you never knew how people were going to deal with a shock like finding a corpse.
“Look out!”
She had already seen the old Ford limping along ahead of them. She checked her mirrors, changed lanes and circumnavigated the Ford with such daring that the Bronco nearly rolled over and played dead. She left a couple of inches to spare and the Ford’s driver looking as astonished as Nick felt.
He was tempted to cross himself, as the women passengers in tiny mountainous countries were prone to do, particularly when buses executed death-defying hairpin turns.
Instead he braced his elbows on the back of the front seats. He kept his voice calm as the truck hurtled toward Boston, sounding as though it would self-destruct before they got there. “Phil, it’s okay if you’re upset. Just talk to me. Tell me what happened back there. Tell me what we’re doing.”
“It’s okay?” She sputtered for a moment, her eyes
What was taking her so long. He wanted to pace but the truck wasn’t quite that big. He drummed his fingers.
Phil had to be in the kitchen by now, surely? He checked his watch and found that precisely two minutes had elapsed since she crossed the threshold. What if she was sickened by what she found?
He should never have let her go.
He gritted his teeth and gave her one more minute.
Just one. The second hand sweep in his watch moved with paralyzing slowness. He lasted a full thirty seconds, then started to climb into the front.
But Phil came out of the house in that very moment. To his astonishment, she looked as cool and as composed as when she entered it. She shrugged and ran her fingers through her keys, an elegant lady disappointed.
He sat back, realizing belatedly that Phil was playing her role, part of a cover story he had pretty much forgotten. But she was evidently made of sterner stuff than that—and a lot less transparent than he remembered. She smoothly slid behind the wheel, started the truck without a word and backed out of the driveway. The only hint that something was amiss was the way she squealed the tires when she shifted into drive.
She said absolutely nothing.
It was as though he had become invisible.
“Well?”
Phil cast him a glance in the rear view mirror that could have frozen his marrow. Her lips tightened and she looked back at the empty road ahead, still without speaking. She turned onto the highway and hit the gas pedal so hard that Nick fell back against the seat.
When he sat up, they were merged into the increasing commuter traffic and headed toward Boston again.
“Aren’t you going to the police station?”
“No.”
There was trouble in that word, big trouble. He had heard women embue a single word with volumes of meaning before and he knew he’d likely hear it again before he died.
But this time, he didn’t know why the woman in question was so angry.
“What do you mean? That was the whole point of this little charade.” He leaned over the front seat. “We need to get the cops. Lucia’s dead!”
“I don’t think so.”
Phil changed lanes with a savage gesture, nearly dispatching a Chevy to the ditch. The driver honked at her, she lifted her chin and put the pedal to the floor. The truck began to rattle, but Phil showed no signs of easing up on the gas. She ducked and weaved between the commuter traffic, her grip so tight on the wheel that her knuckles were white.
He debated the merit of distracting her while she drove like a madwoman. Then she nearly peeled the side off a Cherokee and it didn’t seem as though they had a lot to lose.
“What’s going on? Phil, what did you find?”
That captured her attention, though he had a sense that wasn’t a good thing. One dark brow raised, those snapping baby blues meeting his in the mirror again. “Exactly what you thought I would.”
Her voice was low and dangerous, a trait he had never associated with Phil before.
But then, you never knew how people were going to deal with a shock like finding a corpse.
“Look out!”
She had already seen the old Ford limping along ahead of them. She checked her mirrors, changed lanes and circumnavigated the Ford with such daring that the Bronco nearly rolled over and played dead. She left a couple of inches to spare and the Ford’s driver looking as astonished as Nick felt.
He was tempted to cross himself, as the women passengers in tiny mountainous countries were prone to do, particularly when buses executed death-defying hairpin turns.
Instead he braced his elbows on the back of the front seats. He kept his voice calm as the truck hurtled toward Boston, sounding as though it would self-destruct before they got there. “Phil, it’s okay if you’re upset. Just talk to me. Tell me what happened back there. Tell me what we’re doing.”
“It’s okay?” She sputtered for a moment, her eyes
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