Web of Smoke by Erin Quinn Page B

chance, they’d learned anything since last night. She knew it was probably a waste of time, but she had plenty of it to waste.
    The phone at the police station rang twenty-six times before a gruff voice barked, “What?”
    Christie explained who she was and why she was calling. Twice while she talked, she heard his hand muffle the mouthpiece and his voice bellow into the background din.
    “Is there a point to this, ma’am?” he demanded, cutting her off in mid-sentence.
    “Yes. I’m calling to find out if anyone’s been arrested, so I know whether or not it’s safe to go home.”
    Without a word he put her on hold and let her simmer in the juices of bureaucracy for interminable minutes before he returned.
    “No one’s been booked on that case.”
    “Will I be contacted if someone is?”
    “Listen, Mrs—”
    “McCoy. Christie McCoy.”
    “Mrs. McCoy, I’ll level with you. Another kid’s been kidnapped. We’re busting our asses trying to find the guy who took her. We’ll do our best to get someone working on your case, but the kidnappings have priority. Why don’t you hire someone to keep this guy away from you? Just until we wrap things up.”
    The harried sympathy in his voice was annoying and certainly held no reassurance. “Maybe I’ll do that,” she said. “Thank you for your time.”
    His receiver clicked in her ear. In shock, she stared at the phone before hanging up. So she’d get no protection from the police. All the more reason to get moving. She grabbed Sam’s note and flipped it over to write one of her own. Pen poised, she hesitated. What should she say? Dear Sam, on the run, see you later? She glanced at a snapshot propped on the windowsill of the two of them on their honeymoon in Hawaii. She shook her head. How about, Dear Sam, had to get out or lose my mind?
    She settled for, Be back soon, C., and waited for her cab on the front porch with the rental section of the paper. She’d go to her house, load up her car, and find an apartment.
    For once she was thankful that she didn’t have much in the house. Deep down, she must have known it would never be home.
    And that’s what she needed now. A home. A real home. Not just a pretense. Not just an empty shell she lived in and slept in while mourning the emptiness inside her.
    Telling Sam about the moments leading up to her discovery of his affair had brought her heartache bubbling to the surface, sent her emotions swirling in a boiling vat of hurt. She had to get away.
    Away from danger.
    Away from Sam.
    She couldn’t believe how susceptible she still was to Sam’s charm. Five minutes alone under a fat moon and she’d fallen into his arms. Even now, after all that had passed. And living in Sam’s house was seduction in itself. It would only be a matter of time before he’d have her smiling, laughing . . . forgiving him.
    What future was there in that?
    He’d destroyed a piece of her four months ago. “It didn’t mean anything, Chris. I don’t even know her. I was mad. I was drunk. I was stupid.” He’d confessed this to Christie, as if it would make everything better. What it did was tell Christie how easily he’d tossed away his marriage and commitment. She couldn’t forgive it.
    Her mother had been the kind of woman to look the other way or to believe mealymouthed excuses. But not Christie.
    She sighed, watching the woman across the street try not to watch Christie. Nosy lady. Christie opened her paper and hid behind it. Columns of rentals blurred before her eyes. Determined, she focused and circled a few.
    She’d feel better in a new home, but she knew she wouldn’t feel safe.
    Safe. When was the last time she’d felt that?
    She shivered, remembering back to the months before her mother’s death. She hadn’t felt safe then, either. Then there had been another man, a different man she’d had to fear. A man so terrifying to her that to even think of him sent cold chills down her spine and furtive glances over her