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“Okay.”
“You sure you want to go to Portland? Could be bad weather. Somebody said something about a cold front coming.”
“I’ll stay in Portland if the weather gets bad.”
He held up his hands in surrender, and Savvy left the room, feeling like she’d won a major battle, even if she’d lost the war.
Hale entered the house through the garage door and tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, by the phone. He pulled out his cell phone and snapped on the charger, which was already plugged into the electrical outlet. Then he went back into the garage and took off his jacket, leaving it on the coatrack that hung next to the row of cabinets that held lawn and gardening tools.
They’d lived in the house for about two years. It was Sean Ingles’s architectural design, the last of his work for Bancroft Development and Hale personally before he’d left for Portland. Everyone said how beautiful the house was, how the rock and wood beams and shingled siding were a work of art, depicting the beauty of the Northwest to perfection. Hale supposed it was true, but somehow it had never felt like a home. Maybe it was too staged for him. Maybe it was too perfect. All he wanted when he came home was an easy chair in front of a television and a glass of wine or a beer and a good meal, which constituted anything from take-out pizza to soup and/or sandwiches to something gourmet and elegant. His tastes ran from pedestrian to exotic. He wasn’t picky, and he’d even cook himself, although his repertoire was somewhat limited.
He didn’t, as a rule, think he was hard to live with. Yet somehow Kristina made him feel like he was. Was he kidding himself?
Well, he’d moved the meeting over the office condo project per his wife’s instructions, and now he was trying to work up some enthusiasm for the romantic evening she had planned. Since he hadn’t seen her, he wondered if she was already in the bedroom. Uncomfortably, he recalled the conversation he’d had with his grandfather when he’d walked him to his car.
“Woman troubles?” the old man had asked after complaining loud and long about not needing a babysitter to get to his vehicle. Hale had accepted the verbal scolding in silence until Declan’s last comment.
“Kristina and I have a lot of stuff going on right now.”
“That’s a lot of bullshit, son. Pardon my French.”
Hale wasn’t about to go into it further and said simply, “Maybe Kristina and I can straighten some stuff out tonight.”
Now he walked down the hall to the bedroom, carefully pushing open the door. The nightstand lamps were on, set to the lowest setting of the three-way lightbulb, giving the room a soft ambiance. There was no sign of Kristina, however, and Hale stepped into the room and then ducked his head into the en suite bathroom. The room gleamed in chrome and Carrara marble with white towels. No Kristina.
“Where are you?” he asked aloud, wondering if she was playing some game. His gaze swept over the room, and he realized there was a note wedged between the quilted tan pillow shams. Apparently, it had fallen between the two pillows. He crossed the room in two quick strides and grabbed it.
Changed my mind. I’m not mad. I just need a little space. Kristina.
It was such an about-face, he might have wondered about its authenticity, except it was written in her distinctive handwriting.
He strode back to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, grabbing a Corona. There wasn’t much of anything in the realm of leftovers, so after a moment he picked up the phone and called Gino’s for the second time in two nights. This time he ordered a calzone stuffed with pepperoni, provolone cheese, mushrooms, and olives. For a strange moment he thought about ordering two, though he knew that Kristina wouldn’t touch it. But then he wasn’t thinking about her. He was thinking about Savannah.
“Is that all?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.
“Yeah.” Hale hung up and went back out to the garage, grabbing up his cell phone and jacket on his way to pick up the meal.
Kristina wasn’t a religious person in any way, shape, or form, but if there was such a thing as hell, she was surely living it.
She drove north and tried to calm her mind and her body. She’d been so susceptible, so hungry, and the things she’d done.... It made her blush to think of them. But even worse were the memories of other things. The sheer horror and depravity and the knowledge she possessed that could get her in serious trouble with the authorities or worse. And when she thought of Marcus and Chandra . . .
A small cry escaped her lips, and she pushed those horrific memories aside, seeking to bury them, as she had for months. She hated herself, and she was embarrassed, too, at how she’d appealed to Hale. Yes, she’d meant all those things, but even if he’d thrown her down on his desk and slid hard and deep inside her, driving to her core, though she might have had sexual fulfillment, she still wouldn’t be free.
Free.
She said it aloud, “Free,” tasting it on her tongue to see what it felt like, aware her voice had a hollow and fearful quality to it.
She’d made a pact with the devil, and it had ruined nearly everything good in her life. She had to stop it before it consumed her and all the people she loved. She had to stop it tonight.
The rain had abated, and an icy wind had taken its place, the harbinger of a cold front that was moving in from the north. She realized she was shivering uncontrollably by the time she reached the house, and she worried briefly about her tires—would she pick up a nail?—as she drove into the gravel drive, with its fine layer of sawdust, the last traces of which were evident in the blowing wind as it scrubbed the area almost clean.
Clean. Another word she wanted to apply to herself. In her mind’s eye she envisioned a huge eraser that was inside her brain, exorcizing the terrible thoughts and desires that had taken root there.
All because of him.
Her jaw tightened. Well, she was through with him. Through with all his persuasions and lies, his cold eyes and even colder smile. He was a monster, and she’d been so weak. But now . . . now . . . she was feeling stronger. She and Hale were about to have a baby, and maybe it was latent motherhood—God, she hoped so—but all the nearly incoherent fretting and babbling she’d done for weeks no longer felt necessary. She was going to do something, by God. Tonight. Now. And he could just go fuck himself.
Picking up her flashlight from inside the pocket on the driver’s door, she tested the beam. Strong, she thought with a flutter of assurance. Just like she was. She climbed out of the Mercedes and looked at the old house. She’d chosen the venue for once—the Carmichaels’ house, which Hale was reconstructing. She wanted to feel Hale’s strength running through her. This was his project. A home base of sorts for her.
