Chapter Twenty-Eight
The moon hovered over the skylight, illuminating Patrick’s muscled back. The bed sheet draped over his waist, and he slept peacefully, unaware of how I secretly admired him. In silence, I reflected on his strength, intelligence, kindness, and how he made me feel. The natural intimacy between us remained unparalleled with any connection I’d ever had.
And then ugly thoughts barged in. Unwelcome images of the fire and bloody crime scene rattled around and refused to leave my mind. Anxiety about the possible impending danger gripped my insides. My heart rate increased on its own.
It was no use trying to get back to sleep. I shimmied off the bed and waited to see if Patrick stirred. He remained still. I grabbed my cell phone from the night table, then stepped barefoot down the stairs to the front room. I looked out of the window at the still, ashen grey yard, trees, and road. Not even a night critter scurried by.
I sat on the couch and checked my phone for emails. I tapped on the gallery app and played the video I had filmed around the fire scene. I watched the dark, pixelated footage again and again—neighborhood houses, sidewalks, trees, shrubs, flashing lights, emergency vehicles. At the end of the video, a black car drove slowly by. A car. I scrolled in reverse. It looked like a luxury-size car, and the driver was a single shadowy occupant. Funny how I hadn’t noticed it drive by at the time. I’d been so focused on the properties. Other than that, there was nothing to see. Patrick had been too kind to tell me my video recording would probably be a waste of time and effort. I hit delete.
I stood and peeked out the window one more time. A pair of headlights approached. I thought nothing of it until the car stopped at the end of the driveway. When the driver opened the door, my heart rate skyrocketed. A male figure got out, and I moved away from the window, pressing my spine against the wall. I stood frozen. A thump sounded at the front door, and I jumped. My pulse pounded in my ears, and for long seconds, I waited. A car door slammed, and I spied outside as the vehicle drove away.
On the porch sat a rolled-up newspaper.
“What are you doing?” Patrick said.
I leapt from the window. “I couldn’t sleep. The newspaper is here.”
“Thank you for letting me know that.”
“Patrick, I thought the newspaper guy was a robber. Am I losing it?”
“You’re not losing anything. What can I do to make you feel better? About all this?”
“You’re already doing everything.”
“Go on upstairs. I’ll check everything is secure down here.”
I went up to bed and realized I had left my phone on the couch. I retraced my steps down again. I checked for Patrick in the kitchen and front room, but I couldn’t find him. Then I looked out the window. Outside, he bent over and picked up the newspaper. I expected him to come back in, but he didn’t. Instead, he unrolled the newspaper and took out a slip of paper.
Was it a note? Tucked inside?
I turned and hurried upstairs and slipped back into bed. I pulled the bed sheet to my chin. My mind raced. What the heck was Patrick doing? Looking at some sort of coupon? Or a flyer? And why was it so interesting for him to want to read it in the middle of the night under the porch light?
Was it my imagination, or had he been acting secretively?