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Nikki offered him her most ingratiating smile. “I quit.”
Frank looked as if she’d beaned him with a bowling ball. “Quit? You can’t quit!”
Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a long, white envelope. “Just watch me.”
“This has something to do with that husband of yours, doesn’t it? Just because things aren’t working out between you two…” Realizing he’d overstepped his bounds, Frank grabbed his reading glasses off his desk and shoved them onto his nose. “Don’t tell me, the Times offered you more money.”
She grinned, but the deep-seated satisfaction she hoped to feel didn’t surface. How could she explain that she’d proved her point, made her statement, and now had to move on? Her life had been turned upside down and inside out in the last week and never once had she seen Trent.
Everyone else, but not Trent. Her father, mother and sisters had rallied around her in her time of need. Calling and visiting, sick at the thought that she’d nearly lost her life. There had been many questions about her husband, and Nikki had ducked them all, saying only that the marriage wasn’t yet on stable ground and after the events of the past few weeks, they’d both decided they needed some space.
Her family had thought the reaction odd, but she’d muddled through, dealing with the police, other reporters, interviews and her job. Through it all, she’d felt lonely and empty inside.
Well, today her life was going to change. One way or the other. Grabbing her coat, she took the elevator to the parking garage and climbed into her little convertible. The back seat was filled with the clutter that had been her desk: notes, pens, paper, recorder, Rolodex file, books and general paraphernalia that she’d accumulated in her years with the Observer.
It was time to move on. Crossing her fingers, she put her car into gear and hoped that she would be moving in the direction she hoped to.
You know where I live.
Nerves strung tight, she eased her way through traffic, flipped on the radio and hummed along to an old Bruce Springsteen hit. But her thoughts weren’t on the lyrics or even the melody; her thoughts were with Trent and what she had to say to him.
She turned into the drive of the house on Lake Washington and her heart sank. His Jeep was missing and the hous
e looked empty and cold, as if no one lived there. The police tape, denoting a crime scene, had been stripped away, but there was no sign of Trent.
She knocked loudly on the front door and waited.
Nothing. Not one sign of life. A few dry leaves rattled in the old oak trees before floating downward and being caught in a tiny gust to dance for a few seconds before landing on the ground. Just like us, Nikki thought, watching with sadness. She and Trent had danced for a few weeks and drifted apart.
Wrong. You pushed him away. She walked around the house and an uneasy feeling wrapped around her, a feeling that she was stepping on her own grave. Rubbing her arms, she followed the path she’d taken on the day she’d been attacked, saw the broken branches in the forest, noticed the footprints, observed the dark stain on the grass and dry leaves where the blood of her attacker had pooled.
Trent had risked his life to save her.
Shivering, she told herself she was lucky and she stared across the lake, past the steel-colored water to the opposite shore where houses were tucked in the evergreen forest.
“Nikki?” Trent’s voice whispered on the wind. She turned and found him approaching, his hair ruffling in the breeze, his familiar leather jacket open at the throat. “What’re you doing here? I saw your car and…” His voice drifted away as his gaze caught and held in hers.
“I thought we had some unfinished business,” she said, feeling the ridiculous urge to break down and cry. Lord, she seemed to fall to pieces whenever she was around him. Blinking against that sudden rush of tears, she walked to him and linked her arm through his. “Come on, let’s not stay here.”
They followed the path to a point that had been unspoiled by the evil and malevolence that had trailed them from Salvaje to Seattle. “I, um, I’ve been thinking,” she said, still holding his arm as she turned to face him. The wind caught her hair, blowing it over her face, brushing it against her cheeks.
“When have you had time?”
So he’d seen her on the news. Kept track of her busy life. “Things have been hectic,” she admitted, “but I’ve had a lot of hours to do some heavy soul-searching.”
“Have you?” He wasn’t buying her story, obviously. “I heard you got a commendation and a promotion.”
She shrugged. “I quit.”
He didn’t say a word, just stood there woodenly, not taking her into his arms, even when she was silently begging him to.
“It was time to change.”
“Got another job?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“Seems to me you could have your pick.”
