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Except one.
She pulled out her cell and typed out a text.
What are you up to?
Irish responded immediately.
Going to bed. On at 0500. :-/
She frowned.
Sorry. Talk to you tomorrow.
She locked her phone and shoved it in her bag, not wanting to see if he responded. She shifted into reverse and began to ease out of the parking place.
Her cell phone rang. Hannah sighed and put the car back in park.
The display was lit up with Irish across the screen in black letters. She slid her finger across the bottom to accept the call.
“Hey,” she said.
“What’s wrong?”
She swallowed. Her throat felt tight. “Nothing’s wrong.” Silence hung on the line for a beat or two. “You’ve never texted me before.”
“Well, we can text more tomorrow. I didn’t realize you had an early tour.”
“It’s all right.”
A long pause, during which neither of them said anything. Hannah knew she should talk or hang up, but she didn’t like either of those options. The words were all jumbled in her throat and couldn’t make it out. But hanging up meant she was really alone for the evening.
So the silence dragged on.
Her throat tightened further. God, she’d never hear the end of it if she started crying.
“You know,” said Irish, “I really can’t sleep. I was going to make a pot of coffee. Want to join me?”
She started to decline. She actually opened her mouth to say no.
Instead, she found herself saying, “Sure. Text me your address.”
CHAPTER 26
Irish lived in a tiny two-story duplex right on the water, down at the end of a quiet street. His front yard was barely bigger than a postage stamp, and parking was along the road, but the lawn and a few bushes were kept neatly trimmed. She pulled her cap down to keep the rain out of her eyes and stepped out of her car.
He opened the door before she knocked. “Come on in,” he said. “I hope you’re not expecting much.”
“Four walls and a roof, mostly,” she said. But when she walked inside, she realized there really wasn’t much more than that.
No, that wasn’t true. He had a sofa and a television and a small two-seater kitchen table, but that was pretty much it. The television was tuned to the local news, though it was muted, with closed captioning scrolling across the bottom of the screen. A heavily made-up anchorwoman spoke animatedly into the camera about a crime in a neighboring community. A fluorescent bulb hung over the kitchen sink, casting the rest of the space into a maze of shadows. No pictures hung on the walls, no books anywhere, no knickknacks.
Irish noticed her looking around. “I told you there wasn’t much. I haven’t lived here long, so . . ”
She smiled. “It smells nice, though. Like apples and cinnamon. Baking?”
“Yeah, right.” He pulled mugs out of a cabinet and gave her a wry glance. “I literally plugged in an air freshener the minute I hung up the phone. How do you take your coffee? And keep in mind that I only have milk and maybe a few Splenda packets if you’re lucky.”
“Just milk is fine.” She eased into one of the chairs at the table. Almost immediately, something alive wound around her ankles, and she gasped.
