Whirlpool by Lorena McCourtney

Author:Lorena McCourtney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rogue Ridge Press
Published: 2015-08-19T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

The phone rang four times. The answering machine picked up. Ryan left his message at the beep.

"Hi, Stef. It's me, Ryan. I'm not going to be able to start my vacation this weekend after all. There's been an apartment fire in Spokane, and I have to fly over to investigate it. I should be back early next week. Take care of yourselves, and I'll be down as soon as I can. Tell Sherlock I miss him, okay? And—" He hesitated only a moment before adding, "—I miss you, too, Stef."

He hung up the phone, surprised at how true that last statement was. He'd thought of Stefanie occasionally over the years, especially in those first months after leaving Julesburg. But the memories were fleeting, nostalgic rather than yearning. Their reunion had been relatively brief, and a tension and wariness still lingered between them. He couldn't totally dislodge the thought that she could have hired the arsonist.

But visions of her jumped into his mind at improbable times of night or day. Stefanie laughing. Stefanie barefoot on the beach. The graceful swing of her body and playful dance of her hazel eyes. The way her face had lit up when she recognized him. He wanted to protect her from more hurts of life. He wanted to help her renew her relationship with the Lord. He kept thinking, too, of a pairing of moonlit footprints on the beach . . .

He'd wondered why God had marched him off to Julesburg. It was the last place he'd wanted to go. But he was eager as a kid yearning after a carnival ride to return there now.

He glanced at his watch. So where was she at 10:30 on a Friday evening? Fit 'n' Fun didn't stay open that late. Although she could have stayed to clean up or do office work. Perhaps she and Val were doing something together. Stefanie hadn't mentioned any involvements, but she could be out on a date.

Do I have any right to hope she isn't?

***

Stefanie unlocked the back door and collapsed on the kitchen floor. Sherlock immediately plopped down beside her. She buried her face in his shaggy fur.

"Sherlock, you won't believe what a mess I've made of things!"

Her legs felt boneless, her nerves shredded. She saw the evening like a series of underlit video shots strung together by some deranged editing machine. Dripping shrubs . . . wet branches whipping her face . . . Trisha crashing down the stairs . . . black cave of garage . . . blinding glare of car lights . . . Trisha's flushed face . . . open tunnel of the gun barrel targeted on her . . .

No, that wasn't how it went. She frowned as she tried to organize the progression. The garage came before Trisha aimed the gun. And car headlights? Where were they? But even the disjointed visual memories were not what most disturbed her.

It was a peculiar tingle in her hand, almost as if the gun had left some indelible imprint.

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