bedroom carpet. She came to the side of the bed. He reached down, as he did every night, to pat her. He watched her black shadow turn and go to her bed in the corner. Then he laid back staring at the ceiling.
Usually exercise and a hot shower brought on sleep. Not tonight. For a long time he stared at the recently painted ceiling—one of the benefits of his relationship with the very-particular Angelina Deacon was that, to impress her, he’d redecorated most of the house he’d shared with Liz for so many years. He squashed thoughts of Liz and her premature death. He’d wallowed in sadness for far too long. Life was too short, as Liz had frequently reminded. She would be angry knowing he’d waited ten years to begin dating again. She probably wouldn’t approve of Angelina; the pretty blonde was kind of high maintenance. But Angelina was independent, a self-starter, and perfectly able to care for herself. Besides, she was hot as a summer BBQ grill.
Jarvis’ colleagues continually reminded him that Angelina was way out of his league. What she saw in him, even he couldn’t imagine. But he’d fallen like a boulder for her. Over the past year he’d proposed time and again. She kept turning him down saying she wasn’t ready to jump into that fire again so soon after her divorce. Most men would be disheartened, but like a puppy who’d gobbled down one treat, he continued to putter along, hopeful for a bigger, tastier one.
ELEVEN
Angie hung up the phone feeling relieved. Sending that photo to Jarvis released her from responsibility of delivering it to the cops, of being further involved. He would stay up all night figuring out the photo’s clues. Then he’d send it the whole business to the authorities. No further need to worry about it. Sleep could be restful and plentiful tonight.
She reheated the Chinese food in the microwave and settled at the small table, with the heavy drapes open. She dumped the necklace out of the bag. It had an excellent quality gold chain with intricately woven links, but the most remarkable feature was the sapphire colored stone. She held it up and watched the light bounce around inside. And frowned. She’d never before noticed light reflected inside a fake stone. Angie held it closer to the bulb. It looked to be good quality, the setting was tight, the stones well set. She shrugged, put the pendant in the container with her other jewelry then returned to her dinner.
Below, and across the quiet street, shadow-people ambled about in the dim yellow glow of the streetlights. Directly across from her fifth floor room, a man stood in an office window on the same floor as Angie. He was balding and tallish, wearing dark slacks and a light color shirt. Nothing out of the ordinary except he stared at her. A tiny part of Angie considered slamming the curtains shut. A larger and bolder part of her remained there, sometimes looking right at him, sometimes breaking the contact and looking at elongated clouds on the navy blue and slate gray skyline. The man obviously tried to rattle her. Stupid man to think he could.
The guy looked a little like Josh Philmore—the English teacher. The kids seemed to like him though Angie didn’t know how she herself felt about him. Her first impression that morning had been one of a quiet, self-effacing man who adored his wife. One who went all the way to her shop to make sure she felt okay after the death of her best friend. All day, something about that meeting didn’t feel right. The scene in front of the shop played in her mind. Loving husband arrives, surprises wife. Angie used to love it when Will did that. It provided a nice break in the day. But there had been something off-kilter about their exchange. Josh had been valiant in disguising it, but the more Angie thought on the topic, the more an underlying tension became evident. The way Cilla leaned against him, the way he resisted slightly before putting his arm around her. Question was, if he
Usually exercise and a hot shower brought on sleep. Not tonight. For a long time he stared at the recently painted ceiling—one of the benefits of his relationship with the very-particular Angelina Deacon was that, to impress her, he’d redecorated most of the house he’d shared with Liz for so many years. He squashed thoughts of Liz and her premature death. He’d wallowed in sadness for far too long. Life was too short, as Liz had frequently reminded. She would be angry knowing he’d waited ten years to begin dating again. She probably wouldn’t approve of Angelina; the pretty blonde was kind of high maintenance. But Angelina was independent, a self-starter, and perfectly able to care for herself. Besides, she was hot as a summer BBQ grill.
Jarvis’ colleagues continually reminded him that Angelina was way out of his league. What she saw in him, even he couldn’t imagine. But he’d fallen like a boulder for her. Over the past year he’d proposed time and again. She kept turning him down saying she wasn’t ready to jump into that fire again so soon after her divorce. Most men would be disheartened, but like a puppy who’d gobbled down one treat, he continued to putter along, hopeful for a bigger, tastier one.
ELEVEN
Angie hung up the phone feeling relieved. Sending that photo to Jarvis released her from responsibility of delivering it to the cops, of being further involved. He would stay up all night figuring out the photo’s clues. Then he’d send it the whole business to the authorities. No further need to worry about it. Sleep could be restful and plentiful tonight.
She reheated the Chinese food in the microwave and settled at the small table, with the heavy drapes open. She dumped the necklace out of the bag. It had an excellent quality gold chain with intricately woven links, but the most remarkable feature was the sapphire colored stone. She held it up and watched the light bounce around inside. And frowned. She’d never before noticed light reflected inside a fake stone. Angie held it closer to the bulb. It looked to be good quality, the setting was tight, the stones well set. She shrugged, put the pendant in the container with her other jewelry then returned to her dinner.
Below, and across the quiet street, shadow-people ambled about in the dim yellow glow of the streetlights. Directly across from her fifth floor room, a man stood in an office window on the same floor as Angie. He was balding and tallish, wearing dark slacks and a light color shirt. Nothing out of the ordinary except he stared at her. A tiny part of Angie considered slamming the curtains shut. A larger and bolder part of her remained there, sometimes looking right at him, sometimes breaking the contact and looking at elongated clouds on the navy blue and slate gray skyline. The man obviously tried to rattle her. Stupid man to think he could.
The guy looked a little like Josh Philmore—the English teacher. The kids seemed to like him though Angie didn’t know how she herself felt about him. Her first impression that morning had been one of a quiet, self-effacing man who adored his wife. One who went all the way to her shop to make sure she felt okay after the death of her best friend. All day, something about that meeting didn’t feel right. The scene in front of the shop played in her mind. Loving husband arrives, surprises wife. Angie used to love it when Will did that. It provided a nice break in the day. But there had been something off-kilter about their exchange. Josh had been valiant in disguising it, but the more Angie thought on the topic, the more an underlying tension became evident. The way Cilla leaned against him, the way he resisted slightly before putting his arm around her. Question was, if he
Similar Books
