A Place of Hiding by Elizabeth George Page A

what she wept for was only remotely connected to their dismal night in Little Newport Street. He wanted to tell her that none of it mattered, but he wouldn't lie. He wanted to take her struggle from her, but he had his own. He wanted to make their life together easier for both of them, but he had no power. So instead, he pressed her head against his shoulder.
    â€œYou have nothing to prove to me,” he said into her springy copper hair.
    â€œIf only it was as easy as knowing that” was her reply.
    He started to say that it was as easy as making each day count instead of casting lines into a future neither of them could know. But he got only as far as drawing breath, when the doorbell rang long and loud, as if someone outside had fallen against it.
    Deborah stepped away from him, wiping her cheeks as she looked towards the door. “Tommy and Helen must have forgotten . . . Did they leave something here?” She looked round the room.
    â€œI don't think so.”
    The ringing continued, rousing the household dog from her slumber. As they went to the entry, Peach came barreling up the stairs from the kitchen, barking like the outraged badger hunter she was. Deborah scooped up the squirming dachshund.
    St. James opened the door. He said, “Have you decided—” but he cut off his own words when he saw neither Thomas Lynley nor his wife.
    Instead, a dark-jacketed man—his thick hair matted by the rain and his blue jeans soaked against his skin—huddled in the shadows against the iron railing at the far side of the top front step. He was squinting in the light and he said to St. James, “Are you—?” and nothing more as he looked beyond to where Deborah was standing, the dog in her arms, just behind her husband. “Thank God,” he said. “I must've gotten turned around ten times. I caught the Underground at Victoria, but I went the wrong way and didn't figure it out till . . . Then the map got soaked. Then it blew away.
Then
I lost the address. But now. Thank
God . . .
”
    With that, he moved fully into the light, saying only, “Debs. What a frigging miracle. I was starting to think I'd never find you.”
    Â 
    Debs.
Deborah stepped forward, hardly daring to believe. The time and the place came back to her in a rush. As did the people from that time and that place. She set Peach on the floor and joined her husband at the door to have a better look. She said, “Simon! Good Lord. I don't believe . . .” But instead of completing her thought, she decided to see for herself what seemed real enough, no matter how unexpected it was. She reached for the man on the step and drew him inside the house. She said, “Cherokee?” Her first thought was how could it be that the brother of her old friend would come to be standing in her front doorway. Then, seeing it was true, that he was actually there, she cried, “Oh my God, Simon. It's Cherokee River.”
    Simon seemed nonplussed. He shut the door behind them as Peach scooted forward and sniffed their visitor's shoes. Apparently not liking what she discovered there, she backed off from him and began to bark.
    Deborah said, “Hush, Peach. This is a friend.”
    To which remark, Simon said, “Who . . . ?” as he picked up the dog and quieted her.
    â€œCherokee River,” Deborah repeated. “It
is
Cherokee, isn't it?” she asked the man. For although she was fairly certain it was he, nearly six years had passed since she'd last seen him, and even during the period of their acquaintance, she'd met him only half a dozen times. She didn't wait for him to reply, saying, “Come into the study. We've a fire burning. Lord, you're
soaked.
Is that a cut on your head? What are you
doing
here?” She led him to the ottoman before the fire and insisted that he remove his jacket. This might have at one time been water resistant, but that time had passed and now it shed rivulets onto the