Deceptions of the Heart by Moncrief Denise

Author:Moncrief, Denise [Moncrief, Denise]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Suspense, Contemporary
Publisher: The Wild Rose Press, Inc
Published: 2013-05-24T21:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

Tossing off the sheet, I stretched and rolled, every muscle in my body stiff and uncooperative. Anson’s side of the mattress was undisturbed. The digital numbers on the clock blurred. I rubbed my face and the display refocused. Eleven thirty something. I dragged my heavy legs over the side of the bed and lifted myself with effort. The ocean breeze tickled my nose and the rolling tide caressed my ears. Then I remembered where I was.

Stumbling toward the bath, I snagged my toe on the rag rug near the bed. I righted myself and shook my head, daring my mind to banish the cobwebs and overrule my desire to fall back into bed. The bathroom was empty. None of my toiletries in sight. Without the benefit of a toothbrush, I rubbed the nasty coat of film from my teeth with my finger.

Done with my morning ablutions, I slogged into the kitchen looking for Anson and something to eat. I flipped open the nearest cabinet in search of oatmeal and found it cleared of everything, including what few dry groceries we bought before we headed out of town.

Comprehension soaked into my sluggish mind. I looked down at my clothing. I didn’t recognize the sweat pants or T-shirt. Is my mind playing yet another nasty trick on me? I rushed to the bathroom I had just left. Who will I see in the mirror? I pushed the hair aside. Inspected the eyes and the nose. Pulled the shirt down to reveal the scar. I released the breath I held and sagged, leaning heavily on the sink for a moment before I pushed my body into motion once again.

Stumbling down the hallway, I yelled toward the front of the cottage. “Anson?” Only the echo of my strained cry answered me.

A frantic exploration revealed no sign he’d been here—no sign I’d ever been here. A neat and tidy cottage, waiting for guests. It was as if I’d invaded someone’s vacation place—a squatter with no rights. My purse—gone. My suitcase—gone. No cell phone. No identification. And worse yet, no car.

Stepping onto the porch where Anson and I held our brutal confessional last night, I scanned the area in front of the cottage. Nothing but sand and sea oats. A shell-covered track that led to another shell-covered track. The last bit of civilization miles away. Too tired to concentrate when we arrived, I didn’t note how we got here. The vague recollection of a gravel road flashed across my mind—a thin strip of land that connected the peninsula to this smaller, more remote island.

I panicked, pacing from one end of the porch to the other. Then I saw them. Droplets of someone’s life—a trail of red dots leading off the side of the porch and into the sea oat-studded sand dune.

I followed the blood without thought—without hesitation—as if someone was pulling me by a rope. I trudged through the heat along an overgrown path, slapping oats aside. The drops stopped at the beach. I shaded my eyes, searching the long stretch of sandy shelf for signs of life.

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