Nights in Rodanthe by Nicholas Sparks Page A

would be impossible for me to sit inside
     while you were doing all that work. I’d feel guilty, even if I’m the guest.”
    “Thank you.”
    “No problem.”
    They finished serving up, poured the coffee, and started eating. Paul watched her butter a piece of toast, momentarily absorbed
     in her task. In the gray morning light, she was pretty, even prettier than he’d realized the day before.
    “You’re going to talk to that person you mentioned yesterday?”
    Paul nodded. “After breakfast,” he said.
    “You don’t sound too happy about it.”
    “I don’t know whether to be happy or not.”
    “Why?”
    After the briefest hesitation, he told her about Jill and Robert Torrelson—the operation, the autopsy, and all that had happened
     in the aftermath, including the note he’d received in the mail. When he finished, Adrienne seemed to be studying him.
    “And you have no idea what he wants?”
    “I assume it’s something about the lawsuit.”
    Adrienne wasn’t so sure about that, but she said nothing. Instead, she reached for her coffee.
    “Well, no matter what happens, I think you’re doing the right thing. Just like you’re doing with Mark.”
    He didn’t say anything, but then, he didn’t have to. The fact that she understood was more than enough.
    It was all that he wanted from anyone these days, and though he’d met her only the day before, he sensed that somehow she
     already knew him better than most people did.
    Or maybe, he thought, better than anyone.

Ten

    A fter breakfast, Paul got into his car and fished the keys from the pocket of his coat. From the porch, Adrienne waved, as
     if wishing him luck. A moment later, Paul looked over his shoulder and began backing out of the drive.
    He reached Torrelson’s street in a few minutes; though he could have walked, he didn’t know how fast the weather would deteriorate,
     and he didn’t want to be caught in the rain. Nor did he want to feel trapped if the meeting started to go badly. Though he
     wasn’t sure what to expect, he decided he would tell Torrelson everything that had happened with regard to the operation but
     wouldn’t speculate on what had caused her death.
    He slowed the car, pulled it to the side of the road, and switched off the engine. After taking a moment to prepare himself,
     he got out and started up the walkway. A neighbor next door was standing on a ladder, hammering a piece of plywood over a
     window. He looked over at Paul, trying to figure out who he was. Paul ignored the stare, and when he reached Torrelson’s door,
     he knocked, then stepped back, giving himself space.
    When no one came to the door, he knocked again, this time listening for movement inside. Nothing. He moved to the side of
     the porch. Though the doors of the outbuilding were still open, he didn’t see anyone. He considered calling out but decided
     against it. Instead, he went to the trunk of his car and opened it. From the medical kit, he pulled out a pen and tore a scrap
     of paper from one of the notebooks he’d stuffed inside.
    He wrote his name and where he was staying, as well as a brief message saying that he would be in town until Tuesday morning
     if Robert still wanted to talk to him. Then, folding the paper, he brought the note to the front porch and wedged it into
     the frame, making sure it wouldn’t blow away. He was heading back to the car, feeling both disappointed and relieved, when
     he heard a voice behind him.
    “Can I help you?”
    When Paul turned, he didn’t recognize the man standing near the house. Though he couldn’t recall what Robert Torrelson looked
     like—his face was one of thousands—he knew he’d never seen this person before. He was a young man in his thirties or so, gaunt,
     with thinning black hair, dressed in a sweatshirt and work jeans. He was staring at Paul with the same wariness the neighbor
     had shown him earlier when he’d first pulled up.
    Paul cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “I was