Page 27 of Running to You

Sam’s words almost elicited a smile. “Why would she assume I’ve been abused? Unless… Would Mom have told her that?”

He nodded toward the front door, and they walked that direction. “I don’t know your mom like you do. What do you think?”

“I think… I think, even if Mom thought that, she wouldn’t tell the neighbor.”

“Which means she was guessing. But that black eye… It’s not a bad guess.” They climbed the steps. He took the key from her hand and unlocked the door, but before it opened, he faced her. “You haven’t seen that woman for five years. Wouldn’t you have, if you’d been here?”

“Nothing makes sense, Sam. None of this. I mean, even Florida. My mother hates Florida.”

Sam pushed the door open and then stood aside for her to enter.

She did, and froze.

It was the entry she’d walked into since she was nine years old, but different. Nothing obvious, but… In the living room, there were new throw pillows on the couch. The TV was larger. Dad’s old recliner was gone, replaced by a wingback chair.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.

She shook her head. Of course, things looked different. It was just disconcerting.

“I don’t think you should stay here. Do you think you left any clothes?” Sam stood beside her in the entry, taking up far more space than a man had a right to.

With his height—over six feet—and those broad shoulders, with his strong personality, his confidence, his…power. He’d always seemed too big for her modest house. For her life. No wonder they hadn’t made it. She had no idea why he’d ever wanted her to begin with.

“Maybe you could pack a bag,” he suggested.

“I will, after. First, let’s see if we can learn anything.” She walked through the living room toward the antique roll top desk against the wall. She glanced toward the kitchen down the back hallway. It looked wrong too. Everything looked wrong.

She pushed up the desk cover.

A day planner. A cup with different colored pens sticking out. A stack of pink sticky notes. A glass paperweight. Otherwise, the space was cleared off.

Before she could reach for the day-planner, Sam reached past her and snagged it, so she opened one of the drawers and dug through it instead.

A second later, he said, “Here we go.” He laid it on the surface and tapped on a date.

But her gaze caught on the year printed in bold letters at the top.

They’d told her that five years had passed, but it hadn’t seemed real. Still didn’t.

“Eliza?” He was back to his soothing I’m dealing with a crazy person voice. “You with me?”

“Yeah.”

He tapped the calendar. “I bet that’s a flight number.”

“Huh? Oh.” On the column marked Friday, September twenty-third, Mom had written a four-digit number and a time—four p.m.

“What time did I get to your house last night?”

“A little after ten.” Sam tapped his cell phone screen. “This must’ve been your incoming flight. It goes Newark to Manchester.” He lowered the phone. “You probably just changed planes there, but you weren’t living in New Jersey. As far as I know, anyway.”

She turned and looked up at him. He was so close, just inches away.

He stepped back, putting space between them. “We know you’d been in Salt Lake. Maybe you came from—”

A crash had her looking behind.

A man barreled down the hall from the kitchen, coming straight at them.