CHAPTER FIVE

      TORIE slipped out of bed and reached for her clothes, pulling on leggings and a heavy sweatshirt that came down almost to her knees. She tied her hair back quickly and went to the doorway, opening it as quietly as she could. This was an old house. Just how badly were the stairs going to creak? She stayed as close to the banister as she could get and hardly made a sound.

      The rooms downstairs were silent. She hesitated at the door, waiting for something to stop her, but nothing moved. Once out the door, she was free.

      Now she was on a path she knew well. She didn’t even have to think about it. Her feet knew where to step. She’d taken this route so many times in her childhood.

      The night was clear and even though there was no moon visible, there was enough light to see where she was headed. The sounds of the frogs and crickets, the scent of the ocean, the breeze on her face—it all was so familiar, she found herself smiling as she hurried toward her old house as though she was truly going home. She rounded a corner and ducked back off the path as the flash of headlights from a passing car hit close to her. Who in the world was driving around at this time of night? From the snatch of laughter she heard, she could make a guess. Marge and Jimmy had been out and about.

      She turned back and looked at her goal. Almost there. She stopped behind a small stand of palms to get the lay of the land, and she stood very still, shivering. Was it the cool air or a nervous reaction? For a moment, she thought about Marc and wondered what he was doing right now. Was he asleep? She certainly hoped so.

      Finally she was on the front porch, the one she’d run onto as a girl, calling out, “Hey, Mom, what’s for lunch?” as she threw down the latest shells she’d collected at the beach, or the prettiest rocks she’d found in the hills. The flame of nostalgia made her ache inside, but it was a good ache. Those were good days.

      She tried the front door. It was locked. That was hardly surprising. Never mind. She knew other ways to get in. She made her way to the back of the house and found the window to her old room. It looked firmly closed and solid as a rock, but she knew that a little push here and a jiggle there and a shove in the right direction would loosen the sash and the window would slide up easily. She hadn’t forgotten how to climb through, and in another minute, she was in her old room.

      Pulling out her little flashlight, she played it against the empty walls. It was amazing, but no one had painted the rooms since her family had left. There was her growth chart by the door, milestones marked off in pencil. And there was the splotch of purple color where she’d thrown a paintbrush at the wall in a fit of anger. She stood and stared, breathless. Here it was, evidence that she really had lived here. For some reason, that choked her throat and filled her eyes with tears.

      She went out into the hall and then the family room. The scrapings where chairs had brushed the walls, the mark on the door where her old dog Nanny had scratched to go out a few too many times, the old bulletin board where her mother had put up bits and pieces of her schoolwork or articles that interested her—all were still there. Had she stepped back in time?

      The kitchen tore apart that theory. There was ample evidence that people had lived here since her day. The refrigerator was not the one she knew. The cabinets had been painted white and a relatively new-looking microwave sat on the counter.

      That set her head back on straight. This wasn’t her house. But she did have things she needed to do here.

      The attic. That had been her goal from the beginning and she made her way through the living room to the hallway where the little structure that held the attic ladder hung from the ceiling. And how, without a stepladder or a piece of furniture, was she supposed to reach it to pull it down?

      Her heart sank and she looked down the hallway and around the room. The heating register stood out against the wall, and there, leaning against it, was a long handled iron key for working the temperature controls. Could it possibly be long enough?

      It was. She bit her lip as she worked hard to release the little rickety ladder, and her work paid off. It unfolded before her eyes, giving her access to the attic door. She climbed up quickly and tried to shove the door open. It didn’t budge. She pushed and pulled and tried to pry it open, but nothing seemed to work.

      And then she heard footsteps...a man’s footsteps. She doused her little flashlight and pulled her legs up into the enclosure, heart racing. Anyone who came into the hallway would notice the ladder was down. But would they look up and see her perched there?

      The footsteps came into the hallway. She tried to hold her breath, but she was already short of oxygen and rapidly falling into panic mode. Luckily, he just didn’t stop walking, moving back and forth, just out of sight, making too much noise to hear her and her problems. The beam from his flashlight skittered around the walls, but didn’t aim her way. She caught

      a glimpse of a shoulder in a black pea coat at one point, but she couldn’t see enough to identify the man. All he had to do was glance up and she would be caught.

      Suddenly, he stopped moving. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. Had he seen her?

      No. He switched off his flashlight. He’d heard something, or had a sudden idea, because he turned and began to stride quickly toward the door. Now she was afraid he would get away before she could see who he was, and she slid down the ladder and sneaked silently toward the front room.

      He was headed down the driveway toward the highway. She slipped out into the night and tried to stay hidden in the trees, following him the best she could. Was it Marc? Or Carl? She still couldn’t tell.

      So when the strong arms grabbed her from behind, she was completely unprepared and let out a shriek before the hand slapped down hard over her mouth.

      “Hush,” Marc growled in her ear. “It’s me.”

      Her heart stopped and then started up again. She sighed, relaxing in his arms. It was just Marc. Everything was okay.

      She tried to rouse her own sense of jeopardy. After all, what made her think Marc was a good guy? Still, his arms felt right around her and she turned her head to feel the heat of his face against her cool cheek as though she’d been waiting for just that.

      “Torie, I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her huskily, and she nodded.

      “I know,” she whispered