Smiling at that thought, she started to drift off, to finally feel sleep embrace her. She would dream about James tonight and think about his big hands on her body. “Someday, my love,” she whispered and dozed, slumber taking her to a happy place, a safe place, so secure that she didn’t hear the footfall on the exterior steps, nor even rouse when her lock was gently pried open and the intruder slipped inside. So deep into her dream was she that she barely stirred as the barrel of the pistol was placed near her right temple.
Blam!
It was over in an instant.
One quick pull on the trigger.
Willow’s body jerked like a marionette.
And then there was nothing.
* * *
James didn’t like it.
His house—all clean and spit-polished.
He tossed his keys and wallet onto a side table near the front door and eyed the front entryway, then peered into the living room, where every magazine was in a rack, not a speck of dust to be found, his slippers lined neatly on the hearth, where the slightest bloodstain was still visible.
With his dog tagging along, James walked to the kitchen, where he shrugged out of his jacket with less difficulty than he’d had four days earlier, then hooked it, along with his hat, on a peg near the door to the back porch.
Though he’d agreed that Sophia could straighten up, she hadn’t waited for him to help out as he’d suggested. She’d done it behind his back while he’d been working, though she might have expected him home sooner.
Who could have predicted the accident at the shop?
Leon, who thought maybe Gus had staged the accident.
And Bobby, who held his own suspicions.
Knowlton had driven to the hospital and given James a lift back to the shop. A cigarette dangling from his lip as he drove, Bobby had said, “I’d tell you to fire Jardine’s ass, but that wouldn’t look good right now, him being in the hospital and all, with him yellin’ that he was gonna sue ya? But he’s been slackin’ for a while now. Came in late today, did ya know that? Looked tired as hell and kind of beat up, as if he’d been out all night boozin’ or whatever.” Bobby had sent James a knowing look as he’d turned into the lane to the shop. “And it’s not the first time. But . . .” He’d shrugged, smoke swirling around him in the old Silverado’s cab. “All things considered, you can’t can him. Not now. Jesus, what an idiot. Most people are more careful around whirling blades than Jardine. It’s like the guy has a death wish or wants to be able to sue you and collect disability or whatever.” He squashed the butt of his Marlboro in the ashtray. “Like I said, if I were you, and I ain’t, I know, but I’d take the next opportunity to shit-can his ass.”
Too late for that now, James thought. Gus Jardine had run the tile saw through his hand, ripping through muscles and tendons and nearly slicing off two fingers, which might have to be amputated, and there was talk of nerve damage.
A nightmare.
And an accident that could have been avoided if Jardine had followed the safety practices that were not only written in the handbook, but posted on the job site and that were simply commonsense.
Surely, he wouldn’t have injured himself on purpose, as Leon had suggested. What kind of nutjob would take his chances with an electric saw?
James swore under his breath as he refilled Ralph’s water dish, then opened a fresh can of dog food, added some kibbles from a container on the counter, and set the bowl on the back porch.
Before Jardine had been carted into the ER, he’d been screaming that he would sue James. Instead of worrying about healing, Gus had been focused on a lawsuit, and he seemed hell-bent on making James pay.
James couldn’t help thinking that there was more at play than the accident, that Gus was pissed about James’s breakup with Jennifer, which had happened a while ago. Still, there was something there.
He walked back to the front of the house, where, in the living room, pillows had been placed strategically on his couch. On the other side of the staircase, fresh flowers had been arranged on his dining room table, new bottles of his favorite scotch gleamed on the sideboard, and the glass in the windows was clearer than it had been in months.
James told himself he should be grateful, but Sophia was pushing too hard, all under the guise of helping.
It was suffocating.
And it had to end.
Despite the sex.
Which, he had to admit, was good.
Just . . . a little empty. At least for him.
Or was he rationalizing? Because of Rebecca?
His head was beginning to ache as he headed up the stairs, where the rails were smooth, the carpet runner recently vacuumed. His jaw tightened as he noted that the second floor had undergone the same transformation as downstairs. His bed was made, the room had been dusted, even the old fixtures in the bath were shining like they hadn’t since long before he’d moved in.
He ran a finger along the top of his TV, and it came away without a speck of dust.
It all felt like a new pair of too-tight, polished dress shoes when all he wanted was a beat-up pair of comfortable slippers. Opening the closet, he found his shirts sorted by color, slacks the same, shoes in neat rows and polished.
This—the closet organization—was something Rebecca would never do.
And there she was again. Invading his thoughts. Causing him to draw comparisons. Rebecca was the source of his irritation with Sophia. It wasn’t just that Sophia
