his now accusatory eyes.
“Oh no, I swear I don’t remember.” Just confess. The pressure became too much. Her throat closed up and her lip trembled when bubbled tears flowed with a noisy sob. She scrunched her eyes shut to block out all doubts. She couldn’t suck back the cry no matter how hard she tried.
“Oh no, woman crying, Sam, I don’t do the crying girl thing, do something.”
“Shut up.
She clenched her trembling hands.
“Marcie, stop. Come on.” Sam touched her. Except she could tell by his hesitant, distant, awkward squeeze—an obligatory touch—he’d pulled inside himself. Why bother. Such an affront, she was mortified and took a step back; Sam’s hand fell away.
She clutched her hands under her chin and tried to see Sam through the film of tears that coated her swollen eyes. “Sam, I don’t remember, I know I lied when I didn’t tell you about the dream. I’m positive it’s a memory, and you knew. But I think I did something really bad, and I don’t know what it was. Maybe I don’t want to know. I don’t want to be a bad person. Please help me.”
“What dream? She did something—Sam, what the hell’s going on?”
“Marcie come sit down.” He grabbed his bag and tossed the canvas tote, so it landed with a heavy clunk on the floor, just missing Jesse’s foot.
“Hey, watch it.”
Sam slung his arm around Marcie’s shoulder. He was being kind again when he settled her on the sofa. He hunkered down across from her on the now cleared coffee table. His long legs encased hers. He leaned in and rubbed her arms. How could he be so nice? He should toss her out.
Jesse cleared his gruff throat. “Look Marcie, I just don’t want to see my man here tromped on again by another deceitful woman. And there’s something about you with no luggage, robbed in a crowded, busy airport for your backpack; it leaves me with a lot of questions.”
Sam wiped his hand across his forehead. “Mother of God, will you stop, Jesse? I’m not a kid anymore, and I somehow don’t think Marcie’s here to rob me blind.” Sam’s voice snapped with pure annoyance. “Did you find out anything useful?”
Jesse held up both palms in surrender. “I’m telling you the passenger log doesn’t list a Marcie or Marcia or anything similar. So I still don’t know who she is.”
“Maybe Marcie’s a nickname, have you thought of that? Can’t you get her face up on the news and see if anyone recognizes her?” Sam sounded pissed.
Marcie jumped up when an icy shiver raced up from the center of her belly. Her face lost all color. The room swayed. This time Marcie knew she was going to faint, her vision tunneled. Sam’s firm hand on her back sat her down and pushed her head between her knees. “Take a deep breath. You feel like you’re going to puke, let me know. Jesse grab me that bucket under the sink. Come on hurry.”
Chapter Eight
Sam loved Jesse like a brother, even after the angry rift that tore their friendship apart. Elise—his first love—his wife. Maybe that was why he understood how Jesse could assume the worst about Marcie—why he questioned the backpack.
Marcie was in the bathroom, attempting to compose herself. Water trickled from the bathroom tap, squeaking through old pipes, cutting through the silence. Jesse impatiently drummed his fingers on the checkered kitchen counter.
“Sam, what the fuck was that about a dream and what did she lie about … and she did something wrong? This whole thing isn’t sitting right in my gut. Could you fill me in?” Jesse lowered his agitated voice.
Sam pushed scattered papers on the corner desk in the cluttered living room to one messy pile on the side. “I don’t know. She’s freaked out about something and was about to tell me when you showed up.”
Jesse crossed his arms and firmed his full lips. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been fooled by yet another pretty face?”
Sam turned away from his cleaning spree and leaned his hip against the
“Oh no, I swear I don’t remember.” Just confess. The pressure became too much. Her throat closed up and her lip trembled when bubbled tears flowed with a noisy sob. She scrunched her eyes shut to block out all doubts. She couldn’t suck back the cry no matter how hard she tried.
“Oh no, woman crying, Sam, I don’t do the crying girl thing, do something.”
“Shut up.
She clenched her trembling hands.
“Marcie, stop. Come on.” Sam touched her. Except she could tell by his hesitant, distant, awkward squeeze—an obligatory touch—he’d pulled inside himself. Why bother. Such an affront, she was mortified and took a step back; Sam’s hand fell away.
She clutched her hands under her chin and tried to see Sam through the film of tears that coated her swollen eyes. “Sam, I don’t remember, I know I lied when I didn’t tell you about the dream. I’m positive it’s a memory, and you knew. But I think I did something really bad, and I don’t know what it was. Maybe I don’t want to know. I don’t want to be a bad person. Please help me.”
“What dream? She did something—Sam, what the hell’s going on?”
“Marcie come sit down.” He grabbed his bag and tossed the canvas tote, so it landed with a heavy clunk on the floor, just missing Jesse’s foot.
“Hey, watch it.”
Sam slung his arm around Marcie’s shoulder. He was being kind again when he settled her on the sofa. He hunkered down across from her on the now cleared coffee table. His long legs encased hers. He leaned in and rubbed her arms. How could he be so nice? He should toss her out.
Jesse cleared his gruff throat. “Look Marcie, I just don’t want to see my man here tromped on again by another deceitful woman. And there’s something about you with no luggage, robbed in a crowded, busy airport for your backpack; it leaves me with a lot of questions.”
Sam wiped his hand across his forehead. “Mother of God, will you stop, Jesse? I’m not a kid anymore, and I somehow don’t think Marcie’s here to rob me blind.” Sam’s voice snapped with pure annoyance. “Did you find out anything useful?”
Jesse held up both palms in surrender. “I’m telling you the passenger log doesn’t list a Marcie or Marcia or anything similar. So I still don’t know who she is.”
“Maybe Marcie’s a nickname, have you thought of that? Can’t you get her face up on the news and see if anyone recognizes her?” Sam sounded pissed.
Marcie jumped up when an icy shiver raced up from the center of her belly. Her face lost all color. The room swayed. This time Marcie knew she was going to faint, her vision tunneled. Sam’s firm hand on her back sat her down and pushed her head between her knees. “Take a deep breath. You feel like you’re going to puke, let me know. Jesse grab me that bucket under the sink. Come on hurry.”
Chapter Eight
Sam loved Jesse like a brother, even after the angry rift that tore their friendship apart. Elise—his first love—his wife. Maybe that was why he understood how Jesse could assume the worst about Marcie—why he questioned the backpack.
Marcie was in the bathroom, attempting to compose herself. Water trickled from the bathroom tap, squeaking through old pipes, cutting through the silence. Jesse impatiently drummed his fingers on the checkered kitchen counter.
“Sam, what the fuck was that about a dream and what did she lie about … and she did something wrong? This whole thing isn’t sitting right in my gut. Could you fill me in?” Jesse lowered his agitated voice.
Sam pushed scattered papers on the corner desk in the cluttered living room to one messy pile on the side. “I don’t know. She’s freaked out about something and was about to tell me when you showed up.”
Jesse crossed his arms and firmed his full lips. “Please don’t tell me you’ve been fooled by yet another pretty face?”
Sam turned away from his cleaning spree and leaned his hip against the
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