THREE

      Somehow, in the four hours since Catherine had dropped her grandmother off at the hospital, Eileen had faded, her bright orange hair muted, her skin sallow and yellowed. Head back against the waiting-room chair, eyes closed, mouth slack, she looked almost skeletal.

      Catherine hurried across the room, touching her grandmother’s cool dry wrist, relieved to feel blood pulsing beneath the skin. “Eileen?”

      “’Bout time you showed up.” Eileen’s eyes flew open, her sharp green gaze unchanged by her illness, her eyebrows and lashes sparse from chemotherapy. Looking into her face made Catherine sick with grief and fear. She didn’t let it show.

      “I’m ten minutes early.”

      “Then, why have I been waiting for a quarter of an hour?”

      “You must have finished early.”

      “Can’t see how that could have happened. I get the same amount of treatment every time. Unless they shorted me some this go-round. Maybe I need to track the nurse down and ask.”

      “You know they wouldn’t do that,” Catherine said wearily.

      “I suppose that I do, but chemo always makes me grumpy and waiting makes me grumpier. Let’s get out of here.” Eileen put a hand on both arms of the chair and pushed herself to standing. Upright, she looked even frailer, faded jeans hanging from narrow hips, her clavicle protruding from a sagging T-shirt. She started walking toward the exit, wobbling a little with every step, but Catherine didn’t bother to offer assistance. Eileen wouldn’t accept it.

      “There’s something I need to tell you, Eileen,” she said, resisting the urge to put a hand on Eileen’s elbow and hold her steady.

      “Yeah? So, spit it out.”

      “I had some trouble with the car. I had to ask a neighbor for a ride.” She braced herself, knowing exactly what Eileen’s reaction would be.

      “We don’t have a neighbor.”

      “Sure we do. He bought the Morris property, remember?”

      “Yeah. I remember, but I’ve never seen him, so I was wondering if he actually lived there. Is he cute?”

      “Eileen, you are so predictable.”

      “Well? Is he?”

      “No.” He wasn’t cute. He was drop-dead gorgeous.

      “Then why are your cheeks pink? And...what’s this?” Eileen touched the bruise on Catherine’s jaw, her eyes narrowing.

      “We can talk about it at home. Darius is waiting at his truck, and I’m sure he has better things to do with his day than sit in a hospital parking lot.”

      “I may be sick, but I’m not senile. You’re avoiding my question.”

      “Just putting off the answer for a while.”

      “Why?”

      Because I don’t want you to worry.

      Because I’m afraid stress will accelerate the course of your disease.

      “Because this isn’t the place to discuss it. Half the people here know me, and I don’t want them going to the press.”

      “They’re idiots, and all the press hounds are idiots, too.” Eileen scowled, shooting a hard glare at the guy who held the door open for them. A total stranger, but Eileen wasn’t picky about who she blamed for Catherine’s troubles.

      The press.

      The community.

      The police.

      The only people she didn’t blame were her church friends.

      Blazing sun reflected off black asphalt as Catherine helped Eileen down the curb and into the parking lot. Darius stood a few yards away, leaning against his truck, a phone pressed to his ear. He smiled as they approached, shoving the phone into his pocket and offering Eileen his hand.

      “You must be Eileen. I’m Darius Osborne.”

      “Nice to meet you, Darius Osborne. I hear you gave my granddaughter some help this afternoon. Thank you for that.” Eileen clasped his hand and smiled sweetly.

      Very un-Eileen like, but, then, Eileen had been on a matchmaking mission since Catherine’s release from prison.

      “I was happy to help, Miz Eileen.” Darius opened the truck door, but Eileen held back.

      “Doesn’t look like this truck has a backseat.”

      “I’m afraid it doesn’t.”

      “Then, Catherine can get in first. I’ll get carsick if I don’t have a window seat.”

      “Since when do you get carsick?” Catherine asked.

      “Since I started getting chemo. Now, how about we stop discussing it and get out of here. I’m getting tired and feeling sick.” She knew how to get her way. Catherine would give her that.

      “Fine.” Catherine climbed into the truck, ignoring a fancy sports car that slowly rolled by. Gawkers. She dealt with them every time she came to town.

      “Give me a hand, will you? I’m not as spry as I used to be.” Eileen reached out, and Catherine clasped her hand as the sports car U-turned and headed back toward them.

      She wanted to yank Eileen into the car, but was afraid she’d break brittle bone or tear tight tendons.

      “Let me help.” Darius lifted Eileen easily, helping her into the seat and closing the door, sealing them in as he turned to face the approaching vehicle.

      “Strong guy,” Eileen said.

      Catherine ignored her, watching as the car slowed and a blond teenager stuck his head out the window.

      “Murderer!” he shouted, his buddy laughing in the seat beside him.

      This was why she hated coming to town, the staring, the whispers, the constant reminder of what people had said about her in the weeks and months following her arrest. What people were still saying.

      “Go back to prison, witch!” he called again, and Darius shifted, pulling back his jacket and revealing a shoulder holster and gun. The teen’s mouth dropped open, his eyes widening as he jerked back, closed his window.

      “That’s one way to get rid of them,” Eileen commented gleefully, but Catherine hadn’t enjoyed the show.

      She’d been taunted before, targeted before, but she’d never felt as afraid as she did now. If she let herself, she could still feel hands around her throat, squeezing and choking.

      She shivered.

      “Ready?”