chill ran down her spine, and she tried again to swallow the lump that had formed in her throat. She wished he would just pull her over.
He followed her all the way to her house, turn by turn, but continued on when she pulled into the driveway. As she forced herself to walk casually up the brick walk, the sedan's engine rumbled behind her. She glanced over her shoulder as she inserted the key in the front door, just as he turned right at the end of the block and disappeared from sight.
Once inside, she collapsed against the door and waited for her heartbeat to return to normal. Her head tipped back against the door and she stared at the ceiling. Her imagination ran wild, imagining what the police were after, that she was going to be arrested, that her freedom was short lived.
She'd done nothing wrong. Why was she freaking out? Her legs shook, but she pushed away from the door and peeked out the sidelight. No sign of the police. She shook her head and frowned. He was trying to shake her up, that was all. She had nothing to hide.
At least, she didn't think she did.
She knuckled away the tears that threatened to spill over. Chad was gone. She was a widow, and she had to find a way to continue without him.
She dragged herself up the stairs one step at a time. Her legs felt heavy as lead. She gripped the handrail tightly and pulled herself along. The emptiness in the house surrounded her like a living, breathing thing. It still didn't feel real, being a widow. She'd never lived alone, and she dreaded it. How would she survive? What would she do?
Upstairs in the bedroom, the red message light blinked on the answering machine. As expected, there were several messages, including one from Mrs. Harrison who had received some of Andi's mail, and one from Detective Johnson, who said he had some routine questions. The first message was pleasant in its pure normalcy (Mrs. Harrison collected their mail "accidently" on a regular basis), but the second was cold as black metal.
Andi called Mrs. Harrison and told her she’d be over later, but decided to put the other call off until she could talk to Dana.
But before Andi talked to Dana, she wanted to look through Chad’s den. He kept that door closed and locked. He hadn’t even allowed her in the room to clean.
To her surprise, the handle turned easily and the door swung open to reveal his den – his retreat, he called it. The smell of fine quality cigars lingered in the heavy tapestry drapes. The humidor she'd given him for Christmas a couple of years ago sat on his desk, along with a crystal ashtray and a black coffee cup rimmed with gold. The large mahogany desk dominated the room, with a burgundy leather executive-style chair behind it. It was turned slightly to the side, as if Chad had just stood up and left a few moments before. The room was too dark for her taste, all mahogany and deep reds and greens. She tugged the drapes open and sunlight streamed in.
A picture of Chad and Andi on their wedding day, in an ornate silver frame, and a small paperweight from the Trump Tower in Atlantic City huddled together on the desktop. An oversized book on Maine gems sat atop the credenza. She flipped through the slick pages idly, admiring the photography. A post it note poked out, marking a page with the word “pegmatite” jotted on the yellow tag. The word was vaguely familiar, probably from the gentleman at the dinner party who talked about some of his legendary finds in the surrounding mountains. She pulled the tag off and crumpled it up, then took the book out to the living room to display it on the coffee table.
By the time she finished going through Chad’s desk, the shafts of sunlight on the worn Oriental rug reached the opposite wall. Neat, tidy piles gave her some sense of what needed to be dealt with. Mostly bills. The credit card bills were the most worrisome, so she flipped through them page by page. She reached the American Express bill, and stopped cold.
A charge to
He followed her all the way to her house, turn by turn, but continued on when she pulled into the driveway. As she forced herself to walk casually up the brick walk, the sedan's engine rumbled behind her. She glanced over her shoulder as she inserted the key in the front door, just as he turned right at the end of the block and disappeared from sight.
Once inside, she collapsed against the door and waited for her heartbeat to return to normal. Her head tipped back against the door and she stared at the ceiling. Her imagination ran wild, imagining what the police were after, that she was going to be arrested, that her freedom was short lived.
She'd done nothing wrong. Why was she freaking out? Her legs shook, but she pushed away from the door and peeked out the sidelight. No sign of the police. She shook her head and frowned. He was trying to shake her up, that was all. She had nothing to hide.
At least, she didn't think she did.
She knuckled away the tears that threatened to spill over. Chad was gone. She was a widow, and she had to find a way to continue without him.
She dragged herself up the stairs one step at a time. Her legs felt heavy as lead. She gripped the handrail tightly and pulled herself along. The emptiness in the house surrounded her like a living, breathing thing. It still didn't feel real, being a widow. She'd never lived alone, and she dreaded it. How would she survive? What would she do?
Upstairs in the bedroom, the red message light blinked on the answering machine. As expected, there were several messages, including one from Mrs. Harrison who had received some of Andi's mail, and one from Detective Johnson, who said he had some routine questions. The first message was pleasant in its pure normalcy (Mrs. Harrison collected their mail "accidently" on a regular basis), but the second was cold as black metal.
Andi called Mrs. Harrison and told her she’d be over later, but decided to put the other call off until she could talk to Dana.
But before Andi talked to Dana, she wanted to look through Chad’s den. He kept that door closed and locked. He hadn’t even allowed her in the room to clean.
To her surprise, the handle turned easily and the door swung open to reveal his den – his retreat, he called it. The smell of fine quality cigars lingered in the heavy tapestry drapes. The humidor she'd given him for Christmas a couple of years ago sat on his desk, along with a crystal ashtray and a black coffee cup rimmed with gold. The large mahogany desk dominated the room, with a burgundy leather executive-style chair behind it. It was turned slightly to the side, as if Chad had just stood up and left a few moments before. The room was too dark for her taste, all mahogany and deep reds and greens. She tugged the drapes open and sunlight streamed in.
A picture of Chad and Andi on their wedding day, in an ornate silver frame, and a small paperweight from the Trump Tower in Atlantic City huddled together on the desktop. An oversized book on Maine gems sat atop the credenza. She flipped through the slick pages idly, admiring the photography. A post it note poked out, marking a page with the word “pegmatite” jotted on the yellow tag. The word was vaguely familiar, probably from the gentleman at the dinner party who talked about some of his legendary finds in the surrounding mountains. She pulled the tag off and crumpled it up, then took the book out to the living room to display it on the coffee table.
By the time she finished going through Chad’s desk, the shafts of sunlight on the worn Oriental rug reached the opposite wall. Neat, tidy piles gave her some sense of what needed to be dealt with. Mostly bills. The credit card bills were the most worrisome, so she flipped through them page by page. She reached the American Express bill, and stopped cold.
A charge to
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