Before I Melt Away. Isabel Sharpe
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She gasped and put her hand to her hammering heart. God, for a second she even thought she heard her name whispered out there in the darkness. Was she losing it? The fog was creepy, but come on. Who the hell was going to be loitering around her house, whispering her name, a ghost? A squirrel or a cat, or someone’s pet had made a noise and her imagination cut loose, that was all. Sheesh, get a grip.
She put the catalogs under her arm when she spotted something definitely not good. Her door stood open, just a crack, but open.
Steady. Her heart pounded harder; she swallowed with difficulty. Stefanie had been fairly spacey the past few weeks; she might have forgotten to close it.
The wood felt cool and slightly damp under her fingertips as she pushed it open and went inside. In the living room, she paused, ears straining. No noise. Nothing looked disturbed. She went through the house, approaching each room with caution.
Nothing.
Okay, she was satisfied no one had been here who wasn’t supposed to be. Stefanie must have left the door open. The spooky weather had set off Annabel’s fear.
Back downstairs, she relocked both doors. Then for good measure, she checked that the first-floor windows were locked, too.
Good. Back to normal. Weirdness dispelled. Maybe to add warmth, she’d light a fire in her kinky fireplace—the tiles around the hearth had been painted and installed by the house’s previous occupant. At first glance, innocent decoration. But a close look showed various couples enjoying various acts of…non-innocence.
Annabel loved them.
She crumpled newspaper, added kindling, and one log—why bother with more when she’d only be here briefly?
While the fire caught, she turned the heat down to sixty, turned on the outside lights and went up to her room. Changed into her bright red pajamas, brushed her teeth, washed her face, and took two cooking magazines back downstairs. So she could research while enjoying the flickering flames.
Six fairly dull articles later—how to make the perfect holiday centerpiece…what, to distract from bad food?—the breeze that started lifting the fog earlier had become a serious wind, rattling her windows and moaning through the crack under the front door. Annabel shivered. Wind was a restless, roaming, angry force and it made her want to bury herself under her blankets and pillow the way she had when she was a child. Thunder and lightning, no problem. Hail, ditto. But strong winds, no thanks. One tornado-producing storm had roared through her childhood and blown into her a healthy fear of that power.
The fire all but out, she beat a hasty childish retreat upstairs into her room. By that time, the gusts had died down a bit and another sound rose up, a clanking rattle, as if someone was dragging metal down the street.
She laughed uneasily and shook her head. So now her ghost had chains? How clichéd.
The wind picked up again, the rattling came closer, then an unearthly howl competed with the gusting blasts.
“Oh, for—” Annabel leaped to the window. This was starting to feel like the setup to a horror movie, and it was giving her the heebie-jeebies.
She yanked aside the curtain and pulled up the shade, determined to find normal and comforting explanations.
Ha. Just as she thought. The howling was Elsa, the beagle next door. Clanking chains—she scanned the street. Hmm.
Wait… Annabel squinted and pressed her forehead to the glass. Across the street, a man was jacking up his car. Ta-da. Clanking metal equaled jack being dragged around the car. Aha. Nothing like the delightful dullness of everyday explanations for her fears.
She stayed at the window and watched the man working, squatted in the street next to his flat tire. He had on a long dark dress coat, unusual in this neighborhood, where most of the men wore casual parkas.
The headlights of an oncoming car caught him; he turned his head and stood to get out of the way. Annabel registered a strong nose, nice profile, dark hair ruffling in the wind. He looked vaguely familiar.
The car passed, leaving the man in darkness again, except for the glow of the streetlight in front of Annabel’s house, no longer so shrouded by fog. She watched, waiting for the man to crouch and continue working.
Instead, he turned and looked directly up at her, as if he’d known she was standing there. Annabel gasped and instinctively lunged out of sight, then stood in the shadow of her curtain, hand pressed against her chest. He looked familiar straight on, too, but she couldn’t place him. Someone she had met at an after-hours event? She went over his features in her memory, trying to imagine him with a drink in his hand, or sitting in a lecture hall, or at a family dining table while she served dinner.
No luck. But she knew him, no question.
On impulse, she yanked down the shades, turned the lights out in her room and crept back to the window, folding back the edge of the shade just the tiniest bit so she could peek without being silhouetted by the light in her room.
He was gone.
She blinked and searched the area around his car. Nothing. Nowhere. Vanished.
Okay, the night was getting even weirder now.
Forget it. Back to bed, to Gourmet and Food & Wine. He probably gave up on the tire and went into his car to dial roadside assistance.
She’d settled back into her bed and picked up her magazine when her front doorbell rang, followed by the sharp metallic rapping of the knocker.
2
ANNABEL FROZE. Who the hell was ringing her doorbell at—she glanced at the clock—ten-seventeen on a week-night? She got out of bed and went to the window, strained to see if any sign of the caller was visible. No. He or she must be standing too close to the door; the roof obstructed Annabel’s view.
Okay. So how stupid was it for a woman living alone to answer the door at night?
Pretty stupid.
She grabbed a robe from her closet, jammed her feet into her ratty black slippers and started downstairs, unable to resist her curiosity. Was it the man fixing his tire? Maybe he needed to use her phone? Except what kind of person didn’t own a cell nowadays?
The bell rang once more, followed again by the rapping knocker. Impatient type. She hurried through her dining room, living room, then opened the door into the always chilly front entranceway. “Who is it?”
“Annabel. It’s Quinn Garrett.”
Annabel’s eyes shot wide; her mouth dropped open to emit incredulous laughter. Quinn. She should have recognized him immediately. Even if she couldn’t place him from the year he spent with her family on a high-school exchange program, she should have recognized him from the media fuss over the years. Newspaper, magazines, TV, the guy had become a household name—just not one she expected to show up on her street.
“Quinn!” She eagerly opened the door, then had to steel herself not to take a step back.
Yes, she’d seen that he grew up even more gorgeous than he’d been in high school. Lost the boyish roundness to his face, and the teenage awkwardness. But she was totally unprepared for the impact of seeing him in the flesh, totally unprepared for the intense buzz of chemistry—on her end anyway. Holy cheezits. She’d had a crush on him all those years ago, but the physical reaction was extremely different now that she knew what all those fluttery feelings meant.
“Annabel.” His voice was even more resonant coming to her live and in person, his eyes dark and intense; she could barely keep her gaze on his.
“Hi,” she said oh-so-brilliantly, sounding breathless and starstruck—not at all a coincidence, since she was both. “Quinn,” she added even more brilliantly.
His lips curved in a smile. “You grew up.”
“Oh. Yes.” She winced. Maybe try saying something intelligent? “So