the police didn’t have enough evidence to charge him with the other crimes. He got six years.”
“That’s not a long time.”
“No. It isn’t. He got out last week, more than two years early. Money talks, you know. Jennings was an Ivy League frat boy.” Jayne remembered the prosecutor’s face as he’d told her, after she’d testified, that the other charges hadn’t stuck. No guilt whatsoever. Just another day at the office—for him.
She pushed the anger and helplessness back and drank more chocolate. Calories be damned. “He has no way to find me. Chief Bailey promised to keep an eye out for him. So, no dwelling allowed.” Enough about her. So far, he’d skillfully kept the conversation off himself. Time to turn things around. “What do you do, besides handyman work?”
He pulled his hand away to lift his cup. Jayne’s empty hand fisted on the table. The break in contact left her uncomfortably bereft.
“Furniture repair, general carpentry, that sort of thing.” His phone buzzed. He glanced at the display. His face went stern again. “I’m sorry. The time got away from me. I need to go.”
“Thanks for the chocolate.” Jayne covered her disappointment with a smile. Once again, all the information had flowed in the wrong direction, from her to him.
Reed looked like he was going to say something and changed his mind. “You’re welcome. I’d like to walk you back to the inn, but I totally understand if you decline.”
“Thank you, but I’m going to browse for a book to spend the evening with. Even if I had wheels, it’s too cold to go anywhere tonight.”
His tall frame unfolded. He draped his coat over a strong forearm. “OK, then. Enjoy your stay.”
He tossed the remains of his coffee in the trash on the way out.
Unable to sit still, Jayne headed for the bookstore below. She brought her nearly full cocoa with her. She felt raw and exposed after telling him about the attack. Why had she? It wasn’t like her to open up to strangers. Normally, she didn’t talk to anyone she hadn’t known since birth. Once again, he’d asked all the questions. She, who was supposed to be doing the investigating, hadn’t learned one thing about him. The way he locked down his emotions and personal information told her there was something painful in his past. She was sure of it. No one was that guarded without a reason.
She still had nothing on R. S. Morgan. If anyone in town knew him, they were excellent at keeping secrets. Given the small-town dynamics she’d witnessed so far, vital secret-keeping didn’t seem likely. Either the artist didn’t live here or he lived under a secret identity.
Jayne selected a historical romance from the bargain table. No more reality tonight. She stepped out onto the sidewalk. In the dull yellow cast of the streetlight, flurries blew past.
Walking briskly, she turned off Main Street onto Third. The inn sat two blocks down. She hadn’t expected the street to be deserted and dark this early. It wasn’t even five yet. In Philadelphia, commuters would’ve crowded the sidewalks at his hour. She quickened her stride.
The hairs on her nape lifted in the frigid wind. She stopped. Her head swiveled. No one behind her. No sound but dry leaves blowing in the gutter and the beat of her own heart echoing in her ears.
The feeling intensified as she began walking again. Her grip on the bookstore bag tightened. She glanced behind her. The street was empty. The light from the inn’s porch beckoned from halfway up the next block. Jayne picked up her pace.
She approached the inn. Relief welled in her chest as her feet hit the brick path. She checked the street behind her again to find it clear. She’d never used medication before, but if unfounded anxiety was going to plague her like this, she might consider it. She couldn’t live in a state of paranoia 24/7.
High hedges lined the walkway. Steps from the porch, she passed through their shadow.
Blinding pain and a flash of
“That’s not a long time.”
“No. It isn’t. He got out last week, more than two years early. Money talks, you know. Jennings was an Ivy League frat boy.” Jayne remembered the prosecutor’s face as he’d told her, after she’d testified, that the other charges hadn’t stuck. No guilt whatsoever. Just another day at the office—for him.
She pushed the anger and helplessness back and drank more chocolate. Calories be damned. “He has no way to find me. Chief Bailey promised to keep an eye out for him. So, no dwelling allowed.” Enough about her. So far, he’d skillfully kept the conversation off himself. Time to turn things around. “What do you do, besides handyman work?”
He pulled his hand away to lift his cup. Jayne’s empty hand fisted on the table. The break in contact left her uncomfortably bereft.
“Furniture repair, general carpentry, that sort of thing.” His phone buzzed. He glanced at the display. His face went stern again. “I’m sorry. The time got away from me. I need to go.”
“Thanks for the chocolate.” Jayne covered her disappointment with a smile. Once again, all the information had flowed in the wrong direction, from her to him.
Reed looked like he was going to say something and changed his mind. “You’re welcome. I’d like to walk you back to the inn, but I totally understand if you decline.”
“Thank you, but I’m going to browse for a book to spend the evening with. Even if I had wheels, it’s too cold to go anywhere tonight.”
His tall frame unfolded. He draped his coat over a strong forearm. “OK, then. Enjoy your stay.”
He tossed the remains of his coffee in the trash on the way out.
Unable to sit still, Jayne headed for the bookstore below. She brought her nearly full cocoa with her. She felt raw and exposed after telling him about the attack. Why had she? It wasn’t like her to open up to strangers. Normally, she didn’t talk to anyone she hadn’t known since birth. Once again, he’d asked all the questions. She, who was supposed to be doing the investigating, hadn’t learned one thing about him. The way he locked down his emotions and personal information told her there was something painful in his past. She was sure of it. No one was that guarded without a reason.
She still had nothing on R. S. Morgan. If anyone in town knew him, they were excellent at keeping secrets. Given the small-town dynamics she’d witnessed so far, vital secret-keeping didn’t seem likely. Either the artist didn’t live here or he lived under a secret identity.
Jayne selected a historical romance from the bargain table. No more reality tonight. She stepped out onto the sidewalk. In the dull yellow cast of the streetlight, flurries blew past.
Walking briskly, she turned off Main Street onto Third. The inn sat two blocks down. She hadn’t expected the street to be deserted and dark this early. It wasn’t even five yet. In Philadelphia, commuters would’ve crowded the sidewalks at his hour. She quickened her stride.
The hairs on her nape lifted in the frigid wind. She stopped. Her head swiveled. No one behind her. No sound but dry leaves blowing in the gutter and the beat of her own heart echoing in her ears.
The feeling intensified as she began walking again. Her grip on the bookstore bag tightened. She glanced behind her. The street was empty. The light from the inn’s porch beckoned from halfway up the next block. Jayne picked up her pace.
She approached the inn. Relief welled in her chest as her feet hit the brick path. She checked the street behind her again to find it clear. She’d never used medication before, but if unfounded anxiety was going to plague her like this, she might consider it. She couldn’t live in a state of paranoia 24/7.
High hedges lined the walkway. Steps from the porch, she passed through their shadow.
Blinding pain and a flash of
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