Lover In The Shadows. Lindsay Longford
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it secretive as they drove up the winding driveway hedged by enormous double yellow hibiscus bushes. Climbing into his car and nodding to Tanner, who wandered back down toward the bayou, where bright searchlights sliced the dark, Harlan decided that Molly must have opened the shutters and pulled back the drapes when she’d fled back to the house after his earlier questioning.
He’d fought the urge to pursue her to the house.
Just as he now disregarded the sense that he should turn around and go back to her house.
Stay with her.
She’d been defenseless in his arms as he’d carried her past the open gallery into the huge, empty house.
Trying to ease the tightness between his shoulder blades, Harlan rolled his shoulders.
Firing up the engine, he let it idle for a long time as he continued to stare at the house, at the image of Molly in the long window facing him, the light shining down on her, while outside, night crept silently closer. Finally, he shifted into first and drove away, the rain blurring the windshield.
Stay with her.
The shoulder harness pulling against his chest, he turned and saw the house disappear behind him into the sheeting rain. Just before he looked back at the driveway, he frowned.
He thought he’d seen a shape move at the corner of the house.
Molly woke up abruptly, her heart pounding sickeningly.
The gleam of the lamp on the table turned the man’s hair carroty.
Her pulse slowed as she recognized him. He’d been here with Detective Harlan. She turned her head.
No one else was in the room.
Her mouth was dry—sleepy dry, not the cotton dry of fear. She wet her lips. They were cracked.
She yawned. She’d slept the afternoon through. Unbelievable. Perhaps she ought to see if the man wanted to Molly-sit in the evenings.
“Hey there, Ms. Harris.”
Struggling to rise, Molly found she was cocooned in her quilt, the wild hues splashing the somber, clean whiteness of her living room with streaks of reddish color.
Pushing the quilt away, she gagged, remembering the dark stains against Camina’s blouse, remembering other stains. “Where is everyone?”
“All gone. Harlan told me to stay until you woke up. The doc checked you out. You keeled over like a chopped tree and went right to sleep. Doc said to let you sleep, that you’d wake up in your own good time.”
“I was asleep?” She wanted verification. “Did I…” How could she ask him if she’d gotten up, draped in her comforter, and roamed her house, eyes open wide but her mind asleep, off guard?
“Relax. You never said a word.” His grin was wide and uncomplicated.
She’d been right. Nothing hidden in this man, unlike John Harlan with his enigmatic flashes of irony, his comments that implied more than they said. She shivered and pulled the comforter over her shoulders. She was glad the redhead had stayed with her. She didn’t like the idea of waking up and knowing that the detective had watched her in her sleep, watched her while she was vulnerable. She shivered again.
“I just…slept?” Molly huddled into the quilt, relieved.
“Oh, you squeaked a few times, like you were trying to say something. That’s all.” He stood up and stretched his long arms toward the ceiling. “John said to check in with him when you came to. I’m supposed to tell you not to take any out-of-town trips.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I’m supposed to tell you also that John will be back tomorrow. You’ll need to have your lawyer with you. If you want, you can come into the station instead, though.” He wrinkled his face, too young and embarrassed to be comfortable confronting her with their suspicions.
“Yes. Of course.” Molly cleared her throat. “Why didn’t Detective Harlan arrest me today?”
“Well, you’ll have to ask him, ma’am. Tomorrow,” the redhead said reassuringly. “I don’t think he was afraid you’d run off, though. You aren’t going to, are you?” Worry creased his freckle-splotched face. “Because Harlan would kill me if he thought I hadn’t made it clear that you were only being questioned, ma’am, not arrested. No cause to do anything foolish, ma’am.”
“Not yet, anyway?” Molly managed a laugh. It wouldn’t have fooled John Harlan, its high pitch patently false even to her own ears, but the young technician smiled back in relief.
“Well, good night then, ma’am. You want to lock up behind me?”
Wrapped in her quilt, Molly still felt shivers edging bump by bump up her spinal column. “Oh, yes. I’ll see you out through the kitchen.” Rising too quickly to her feet, she was momentarily dizzy, but she steadied herself on the arm of the couch. “Do you mind waiting with me here while I close the drapes and lock up?” She shot him an easygoing smile, not letting on how desperately she wanted him to stay in her house all night while she slept. This young man. But not John Harlan. She wouldn’t have slept had he remained behind.
“Nope, I don’t mind. You want some help?” He walked toward the front door.
“No. Thanks, anyway. It will only take me a second more down here.” She had to check the locks herself. She didn’t trust anyone else, not even this blue-eyed young cop.
While Ross Whittaker—he’d told her his name—waited, Molly went through her nightly routine. With him by her side, she felt safe from the fear that she was whirling off into some world she’d never escape from.
Ross Whittaker was so normal that he made her believe during these moments that she’d imagined everything that had happened to her in the last months.
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