Tymber Dalton (15 page)

* * * *

Sami sat on the couch, the TV unable to hold her interest. Steve had tried so hard to make a perfect evening. But if it hadn’t been for the doctor’s diagnosis, Sami would have wondered if Steve made the pain in his gut up.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against the sofa. At least he was trying to change himself. Could he keep it up and make the changes permanent? Not for her sake, but at least for his.

She couldn’t deny part of her felt relieved when their romantic interlude fell through. Her body had wanted something, anything, aching to feel a man’s hands on her after months of loneliness.

But she wanted them to be Matt’s hands. She wasn’t proud of that, but she couldn’t ask for the truth from Steve and keep lying to herself.

That part of her had already emotionally detached from Steve, convinced the end of their marriage was near. She’d seen Steve “try” before, only to be disappointed when he didn’t follow through on his promises. She spent many years trying to accept him as he was, but he’d gotten worse.

She was tired of letting herself get hurt. If Steve couldn’t take care of her, she needed to take care of herself and get on with life.

Her cell phone lay on the coffee table. It wasn’t ten, Matt would still be awake. Should she call?

She hadn’t talked to him in a few days.

Or do I want to see if my heart still flutters?

She dialed his number from memory.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hey yourself.”

“What’s wrong?”

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. How did he read her mind like that? “I had to take Steve to the ER.”

“What happened?”

She related the events, leaving out their almost-tryst on the sofa.

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, they gave him something that knocked him out. He’s asleep upstairs.”

Matt paused for a moment, and she almost thought the call had dropped. “How are
you
doing?”

She felt that sizzle for him again, that spark. “I’m okay,” she lied.

“You’re lying.”

“How do you do that?”

He chuckled, and in her mind she envisioned his smile.

“I know you, Sam. Despite your writing talents, in real life you’re a terrible liar.”

“I’ll be okay. It’s been a rough week.”

“What’s going on?”

She gave in and told him about Steve’s mood swings, the irritability, the fights, the background history—as much as she knew—about the house. She left out the shower incident.

When she finished, he let out a low whistle. “Wow. You know, I could get away sooner.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll be fine. I’m under a lot of stress.”

They chatted a few minutes longer before she started yawning and bid him good night. She put the phone on its charger and slowly mounted the stairs.

A heavy, dark foreboding settled on her, and she stopped, looking around. She almost felt watched, but all the curtains were drawn.

Backtracking, she checked all the locks. Secure. Upstairs she quietly undressed and curled up in bed.

The next morning, Steve handed Sami the paper with the general practitioner’s information. She called the office, and surprisingly, the doctor himself answered.

After Sami explained the situation, he agreed to work Steve in at eleven thirty.

“That’s perfect,” she said, writing down the address, only two blocks from the library. She gave Steve the info. “I can drop you off and meet with Jane McCartyle, the librarian.”

Steve spent a little bit of time working on his manuscript, editing. The prior day’s events still disturbed him. He knew he heard a voice and tasted whiskey, no doubt about it.

So strong, in fact, he debated whether he should go to the Friday night meeting as a precaution. He’d never been a big whiskey drinker, but now he felt an itch he couldn’t scratch and was afraid of it becoming a full-out, brain-burning craving he couldn’t quench without a bottle.

It had to be some sort of delayed reaction, combined with the pain, that’s all.

Right?

Dr. Smith was a thin, older man with an office on the lower floor of an old, two-story brick building near the courthouse.

“Want me to go with you?” Sami asked.

He shook his head. “Go talk to the librarian. I’ll call your cell if we’re done in time to meet for lunch.”

She kissed him on the cheek and walked toward the library.

Dr. Smith’s nurse was on vacation, it turned out, which explained his light caseload and answering the phone in person. “I should close down and take one myself, but I don’t feel like going anywhere,” he explained.

Steve liked him. He took Steve’s medical history, growing serious when they discussed his alcoholism—another reason Steve didn’t need Sami there with him.

“How long were you drinking?”

He hesitated. “Three years. Not really heavy the first year, then it got out of hand.”

“But you’ve been sober since?”

Steve looked away. “Usually.”

“Usually?”

Steve shrugged. “Mostly.” Well, it was sort of the truth.

The doctor put the clipboard down and checked Steve’s vital signs. “Ever have a gallbladder attack like that before?”

“No. It was the weirdest thing. It hit me out of nowhere.”

“What were you doing when it happened?”

He blushed. “It was after dinner. My wife and I were on the couch, um…” He wasn’t sure how to continue.

The doctor spared him. “Understood. You said you’d felt the pain off and on all day?”

Steve thought back. “Well, not all day, but most of the afternoon.”

Dr. Smith nodded. “We’ll get you in for blood work, check your oil, rotate the tires,” he joked, making Steve laugh. “How old are you again?”

“Forty.”

“Kids?”

“No.” He paused. “Not yet.”

“Looking forward to it?”

“Not really.” Steve didn’t realize he’d spoken the thought out loud until he saw the doctor’s look.

“Does your wife know how you feel?”

Steve shook his head. How was he supposed to tell her he’d changed his views on parenthood?

He didn’t want to risk screwing up a baby’s life. He knew Sami wanted kids, they’d talked about it and agreed upon it before they got married.

It was also why he frequently turned her away. She was thirty-five and running out of time. He knew she’d stopped taking the Pill a couple of months earlier. It wasn’t fair to her, but he didn’t want to tell her the truth and lose her. He also didn’t want her to get pregnant.

“Don’t you think you should tell her?”

“I was hoping I could have a secret vasectomy,” he half joked. “Then I wouldn’t have to.”

“I think you have the topic for your next appointment with Bill.”

* * * *

Jane McCartyle got away early. She insisted Sami call her Jane and led the way to a small café on the other side of the courthouse square. Sami could see Dr. Smith’s office from where she sat. She kept an eye out for Steve.

Jane carried a tote bag. After the waitress took their order, the librarian produced a file folder two inches thick and handed it to Sami. “This is everything I have on the Simpson property. Those are copies. You can keep them.”

Sami’s eyes widened. “Jane, I don’t know what to say, thank you!” She thumbed through the contents.

Jane dropped her voice. “I’m not a superstitious person, mind you, but that house has a pretty bad track record. Or a huge streak of bad luck. Maybe you can use the information in there for a story. I was going to write it, but frankly, I don’t have the time. I’d be happy to help you any way I can.”

There wasn’t just information about the house, it was a detailed background study of the entire area. Sami sensed the seeds of an idea.

“This is wonderful, thank you.” Sami closed the folder and put it to the side when the waitress brought their iced tea. “I was hoping you could put me in contact with Shelly Johnson.”

“Why do you want to talk to her?”

Sami fibbed. “It’s not that I don’t trust the real estate company, but the asking price they quoted us for the property seems very low. I want to ask her why.”

Jane smiled. “Probably because of the house’s history. She won’t sell it to a developer, and it’s always quitclaimed back to her as part of her sales contract.” Jane pulled out her address book and wrote down the number. “Here you go. Tell her I gave it to you.”

Their food arrived, and they turned their discussion from the house. Sami saw Steve step outside, and she called. She watched him stop and answer his cell.

“Look straight ahead.”

He did. She waved at him through the window. “See me?”

He looked confused for a moment before he spotted her. “I’ll be right there.” He made his way across the square.

Sami noticed Jane watching Steve. He was a handsome man, with boyish good looks, but he was at least twenty years younger than Jane. Sami didn’t think lust filled the librarian’s eyes.

“Can I see that folder for a moment?” Jane asked.

“Sure.” Sami handed it over. Before Steve reached them Jane pointed to a picture from an old article.

The hat made it tricky, but sure enough, the man looked like Steve.

The cutline on the picture identified the man as George Simpson.

Sami somehow managed to hold up her end of the conversation. Steve ordered a cup of soup and acted like his normal, charming self. Sami kept picturing the article’s headline, now safely hidden in the folder.

George Simpson, Family, Missing.

* * * *

Steve closed his eyes and relaxed on the ride home. Dr. Smith made the lab appointment for Monday, with a follow-up at his office on Thursday.

Sami seemed unusually quiet. He attributed it to stress.

“What’s in the folder?” he asked.

“Huh? Oh, Jane has been researching the house and area for a long time. I have dibs on it. It’ll make a great book.”

He smiled. “Gladly. I’ve got more than enough ideas of my own.” He squeezed her hand. “Thank you for taking care of me, I appreciate it. Especially considering what a butt head I’ve been lately.”

“Well, you might be a butt head, but you’re my butt head.”

* * * *

Steve took another pill when they got home and then lay down for a nap. After he fell asleep, Sami walked outside with her cell and called Shelly Johnson.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Ms. Johnson? My name is Samantha Corey, I’m renting your house.”

There was silence for a moment, and she wasn’t sure if the call dropped.

“Yes, the real estate company said a couple moved in. How can I help you?”

Sami took a deep breath and tried to forget Matt’s admonishments that she was a bad liar. “I’m sorry to bother you. Jane McCartyle at the library gave me your number. The real estate agent said you might be interested in selling the property, but they quoted us an awfully low price. I wanted to make sure they were correct.”

“You wanted to make sure they weren’t trying to pull a fast one.”

Sami laughed. “Well, yes. They told us five hundred thousand. That can’t be right, can it?”

“It is. How much do you know about the house?”

Lie or tell the truth?
If the woman talked to Jane, she might know about the folder of information.

Half truth. “I’m aware apparently it has a history, but I don’t know all the details yet.” Okay, that was close enough.

“That’s an interesting way of phrasing it, Mrs. Corey. Yes, the house has a history. I’m sure Jane can fill you in on the details, and if you still want to purchase it, the offer stands. I am getting old. I don’t want my son living there, and I don’t want to pay taxes on it anymore. If you still want it at the end of your rental period, I’ll sell it to you.”

“Can you tell me more about the house?”

Another long, uncomfortable silence. “If you’ll talk to Jane, I’m sure she can fill you in. I don’t like to relive it, and before I owned it, I don’t know the facts. Jane is a better source of information.”

“Okay. Well, thank you for your time.”

“You’re welcome.” Pause. “One more thing.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Keep an eye on your husband. If his behavior changes, you get him out of there, understand?”

Sami swallowed. How was she supposed to tell if his behavior changed? Unless he quit being an asshole for more than five minutes, she’d never know. “Thank you, I will.”

She hung up and went to check on Steve. He was still sound asleep.

Sami made a cup of hot tea and curled up in her chair with the folder. There was so much to go through, well over a hundred pages of articles, copied handwritten accounts, reports—it was overwhelming. She stared at the picture of George Simpson. He looked a little older than Steve, but the resemblance was remarkable.