outside wall with an echoing thud, rocking ancient, rusty hinges. Did he feel better? No .
Chapter Twelve
The wind whipped around his dark tousled hair. The familiar man was filled with a powerful hate as he gripped the steering wheel of a rusty brown mustang convertible. In a flash, the scene changed to a man and a woman standing at the edge of a steep mountain road with a bare fir tree and unbarricaded cliff beside them. The tall blonde man had his arm around the despairing, curvy woman. Their heads were lowered, standing before a simple cross. Jerome flashed in front of her. Arms crossed over his broad chest, his golden hair whipping in the wind. “Go to the attic Marcie, you’ll find some answers there.”
Marcie bolted upright. Beads of sweat danced over her chilled skin. Her breath shook, and she struggled in the surrounding darkness to shake loose the dreamlike state—that memory. And Jerome, Jesus what was he trying to show her?
A faint light illuminated a yellow rectangle into the room from the open door. Marcie crept out of bed wearing just her long beige shirt. She could hear Sam talking. So she followed his deep voice to where he stood by the dim frame window, his cell phone pressed to his ear, listening.
He disconnected without turning around and slipped the phone in his blue jeans back pocket. He didn’t acknowledge her or turn around. He leaned his arm upon the chipped window frame, staring out into the darkness. “What’re you doing up?”
Obviously, he’d heard her. She should have realized she couldn’t sneak up on him. His words were clipped. He must still be mad.
Dinner had been tense, quiet and lonely. The hamburgers tasted like sawdust when she tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. He had so many quirks in his personality. Sam pulled into himself when he was irritated, as if he replayed whatever bothered him, over and over in his mind.
His response to anything she asked had been either a grunt or a curt one-word answer. Her traitorous thoughts shifted, maybe he couldn’t stand being in the same room with her—maybe he had enough and questioned his wisdom of helping a virtual stranger. This must be the end—yes; he’d turn her in and walk away. At dinner, she’d been unable to bear that thought, so she excused herself, pushing her full plate away, saying she was tired and escaped to the only bedroom. She didn’t know how long she lay in bed with a burning ache ripping a hole in her heart before finally drifting off. Now all she wanted to do was cry as she stood before Sam in a skimpy shirt with bare legs in this tiny, cluttered sitting room connected to the kitchen.
“Are you turning me in?” Marcie didn’t mean to say it aloud.
“Dammit Marcie, is that what you thought?” He snapped, jamming his fingers through his wavy hair. “You don’t get it, do you?” He paced and then turned toward her, hesitating a second before closing the gap between them. He cradled her shoulders with his large firm hands. “Look at me. You can’t be taking chances like you did. When I say stay in, don’t open the door to anyone. That means don’t take the stinking garbage out, nothing!”
She blinked. “Are you telling me you’ve been angry all night because I took out the garbage? And that phone call had nothing to do with turning me in?”
His eyebrows furrowed and the strong, stubborn jaw tightened. “Fuck Marcie, what kind of asshole do you take me for?” It was obvious from the weary lines on his face he hadn’t slept.
With a shaky hand, she skimmed over the dark hair on his chin, two days without shaving. “You confuse me.” Sam dimmed in front of her when tears glazed her eyes.
He softened his tone. “I was talking to my partner, Diane, in Gardiner.”
Her scalped tingled and her face warmed with excitement. Then the worry dashed away all her hope like a splash of ice cold water. This was help for him. Or was it something else?
“Can I ask you something
Chapter Twelve
The wind whipped around his dark tousled hair. The familiar man was filled with a powerful hate as he gripped the steering wheel of a rusty brown mustang convertible. In a flash, the scene changed to a man and a woman standing at the edge of a steep mountain road with a bare fir tree and unbarricaded cliff beside them. The tall blonde man had his arm around the despairing, curvy woman. Their heads were lowered, standing before a simple cross. Jerome flashed in front of her. Arms crossed over his broad chest, his golden hair whipping in the wind. “Go to the attic Marcie, you’ll find some answers there.”
Marcie bolted upright. Beads of sweat danced over her chilled skin. Her breath shook, and she struggled in the surrounding darkness to shake loose the dreamlike state—that memory. And Jerome, Jesus what was he trying to show her?
A faint light illuminated a yellow rectangle into the room from the open door. Marcie crept out of bed wearing just her long beige shirt. She could hear Sam talking. So she followed his deep voice to where he stood by the dim frame window, his cell phone pressed to his ear, listening.
He disconnected without turning around and slipped the phone in his blue jeans back pocket. He didn’t acknowledge her or turn around. He leaned his arm upon the chipped window frame, staring out into the darkness. “What’re you doing up?”
Obviously, he’d heard her. She should have realized she couldn’t sneak up on him. His words were clipped. He must still be mad.
Dinner had been tense, quiet and lonely. The hamburgers tasted like sawdust when she tried to swallow past the lump in her throat. He had so many quirks in his personality. Sam pulled into himself when he was irritated, as if he replayed whatever bothered him, over and over in his mind.
His response to anything she asked had been either a grunt or a curt one-word answer. Her traitorous thoughts shifted, maybe he couldn’t stand being in the same room with her—maybe he had enough and questioned his wisdom of helping a virtual stranger. This must be the end—yes; he’d turn her in and walk away. At dinner, she’d been unable to bear that thought, so she excused herself, pushing her full plate away, saying she was tired and escaped to the only bedroom. She didn’t know how long she lay in bed with a burning ache ripping a hole in her heart before finally drifting off. Now all she wanted to do was cry as she stood before Sam in a skimpy shirt with bare legs in this tiny, cluttered sitting room connected to the kitchen.
“Are you turning me in?” Marcie didn’t mean to say it aloud.
“Dammit Marcie, is that what you thought?” He snapped, jamming his fingers through his wavy hair. “You don’t get it, do you?” He paced and then turned toward her, hesitating a second before closing the gap between them. He cradled her shoulders with his large firm hands. “Look at me. You can’t be taking chances like you did. When I say stay in, don’t open the door to anyone. That means don’t take the stinking garbage out, nothing!”
She blinked. “Are you telling me you’ve been angry all night because I took out the garbage? And that phone call had nothing to do with turning me in?”
His eyebrows furrowed and the strong, stubborn jaw tightened. “Fuck Marcie, what kind of asshole do you take me for?” It was obvious from the weary lines on his face he hadn’t slept.
With a shaky hand, she skimmed over the dark hair on his chin, two days without shaving. “You confuse me.” Sam dimmed in front of her when tears glazed her eyes.
He softened his tone. “I was talking to my partner, Diane, in Gardiner.”
Her scalped tingled and her face warmed with excitement. Then the worry dashed away all her hope like a splash of ice cold water. This was help for him. Or was it something else?
“Can I ask you something
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