Chapter 9 #2
When she wiggled her fingers, he gave her the palm-sized metal oval. Whose identification number, yes, opened the desk drawer,
which in turn contained a puzzle of some sort. The puzzle appeared to have subtle, hidden numbers, so that would probably
help open the storage cabinet compartment, where the amulet might—
A beam in the ceiling above shook and semi-collapsed—in a theatrical, clearly predetermined way—as the lamps went dark. The
howls became deafening, and the door began rattling in its frame. Thud. Scrabble. Shake. Thud-thud.
“Holy shit.” Karl grabbed her and shoved her behind him, brandishing a file folder in his fist. “If those assholes—”
A key clicked in the door, which swung open noiselessly, revealing . . .
Not zombies, obviously.
Their room monitor walked into the room and raised the lights by tapping on her tablet, wearing a look of resigned tolerance.
Exhaling harshly, Karl lowered his arm, stepped to the side, and allowed Molly to move forward again.
“At this point, I usually go through what needed to happen for you to complete your mission, but that might take some time
for you guys. Like, a lot of time.” The young woman tucked the tablet under her arm. “Would you rather just leave?”
“Oh, no. Definitely not.” Molly leaned a hip against the damn desk, folding her arms across her chest. “I want to know exactly what we could have accomplished . . . if I’d been told the number on the employee badge much, much sooner.”
Karl’s face creased in a wince, but he didn’t protest.
Ten minutes later, the room monitor was still talking.
“—and then you’d place the amulet back inside the tomb and close the sarcophagus lid, thus causing the zombies to collapse
in place before they could quite reach you,” she concluded, sounding weary. “The hidden door would swing open, and you’d have
escaped successfully.”
Silence.
“Wow,” Molly finally said. “So there were different spaces to explore, including a boobytrapped tomb and its treasure room.
We could have met the holographic reincarnation of an Egyptian queen and slain a zombified, phrenology-obsessed Victorian
archaeologist. And yet we spent our entire hour in a museum’s ten-by-ten back room storage area.”
She raised her brow at Karl.
“No way in h—” He caught himself, then turned to the employee. “No way anyone actually gets all that sh—stuff done before
the hour is up. This room’s gotta be the hardest one you have, right?”
She directed a flat stare his way. “Our record for this room is fourteen minutes. Set by a trio of eighth-graders during a
slumber party.”
His shoulders sagged.
“Within those fourteen minutes, they also created and exchanged friendship bracelets—”
Karl grunted. “Fu—freaking Swifties. Should’ve known.”
“—and began coding a Snapchat filter that made them look like talking butts.”
“Damn overachieving tweens,” he muttered under his breath.
Half amused, half annoyed, Molly followed the room monitor through the now-opened door, down the hall, and to the exit, where the young woman shooed them outside with an audible sigh of relief.
After the air-conditioned chill of the escape room, the humid warmth of the late September afternoon felt like a benediction.
She turned her face up to the sun, let her eyelids slip shut, and basked in the heat for a moment. When she blinked her eyes
open again, Karl was staring down at her, his intent, tight-lipped expression spangled in her sun-dazzled vision.
His voice had turned to sandpaper. “You ready to go?”
She nodded. In unspoken mutual agreement, they began to walk in the direction of both the Spite House and his bakery. Neither
said anything for a long time.
He didn’t touch her either. Didn’t take her hand or bump hips or sling a heavy arm around her shoulders. Just scowled down
at the brick sidewalk and stomped as best he could in his Crocs. In other words: not very effectively.
“Figure that clusterfuck didn’t help me prove myself.” As he finally spoke, his fingers tunneled through his hair and tugged
agitatedly. “Sorry, Dearborn. Waste of time and money.”
“Well . . .” The waterfront glinted blue over the horizon, and she squinted at it while they walked. “The premise of the room
was fun. And now I know you don’t get mean under pressure, insist on making all the decisions, or simply quit. Those are all
necessary qualities for me to trust someone.”
Honestly, the more ways Karl differentiated himself from her ex, the better.
“But?” His tone was resigned.
The obvious unhappiness in his voice almost silenced her, but . . . he’d always encouraged her bluntness in the past. And if he wanted her to trust him, he needed to understand how he was making that task more difficult on them both, right?
She exhaled slowly. “I can’t say I’d be eager to rely on you in any situation requiring teamwork and clear, consistent communication.”
He didn’t reply with words. Just grunted again, which seemed apropos.
While helping Molly move in on Friday, Athena had explained the whole bizarre story behind the mistaken obituary. And yes,
the reporter’s desperation for a story, her hearing problems, and her true crime habit caused the whole uproar. But so did
Karl’s unwillingness to text his closest friends or even crack the door to his workroom and wave at the woman when she asked
about him.
Poor communication. Again. Just like today.
A relationship with a man who didn’t see the point in sharing crucial information would be an exercise in frustration. Hell,
even casual sex with a man who couldn’t talk through what they both wanted and what was or wasn’t working for them didn’t
sound great. Chemistry and good instincts could take a lover pretty far, but not as far as she’d prefer.
Their footsteps crunching against the sidewalk were the only sound for a while. When her phone rang, it was a welcome distraction.
She ducked her head to dig for it in her bag, and when she halted at the sidewalk’s edge, next to the brick exterior of a
bank, he stopped beside her.
“Sorry,” she murmured. “Just want to make sure there’s no problem with the renos.”
When she unearthed her cell, though, it wasn’t her contractor friend on the line.
She really should’ve followed her initial post-divorce instincts and assigned Rob his own special ring tone. “Armor” by Sara Bareilles, maybe. Or if she wanted to go old school, Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain” might’ve worked too. Either way, she’d know when to ignore her phone when it rang.
After seventeen years together and only two years since the divorce, too many aspects of their financial lives still involved
each other. Complete avoidance wasn’t an option right now, but someday—some sweet, sweet day—she’d be able to block him entirely.
For today, she’d just pretend he hadn’t called.
Hands steady and cold as stone, she tucked her phone away again. When it dinged repeatedly with incoming text messages only
seconds later, she didn’t flinch, and she didn’t check the screen again.
She raised her head. Karl was frowning down at her.
She frowned right back. “What? What’s wrong?”
“About to ask you the same thing.” Eyes narrowed, he studied her closely. “You look stressed, Dearborn.”
Did something about Harlot’s Bay make her especially easy to read? Or did Lise and Karl simply know her better and pay her
closer attention than anyone else ever had?
She smiled, doing her best to radiate unruffled serenity. “I’m fine.”
His frown deepened into a glower.
“Uncommunicative pot, meet uncommunicative fucking kettle,” he muttered in what he undoubtedly—but incorrectly—believed to
be a quiet voice.
Her occasional wary reserve wasn’t at all the same thing as his overall inability or unwillingness to communicate. But since she had no desire to discuss any subject even tangentially related to her ex-husband, she bit her tongue and resumed walking toward the Spite House.
Karl’s Crocs slapped the sidewalk in an agitated rhythm. Whenever people waved or greeted him, he simply nodded or grunted
in response. And every time she glanced over at him, the lines in his forehead had deepened, and his lips had clamped into
a thinner, tighter line.
“Listen, Dearborn.” Only half a block away from the Spite House, he abruptly halted. “Today’s exercise went off the rails.
We both know it.”
As soon as she stopped beside him, he adjusted his position to block the late afternoon sun from her eyes. Because, for all
his grumbling and terseness, Karl Dean paid attention. He cared. He always tried, even if he didn’t always speak.
“Kind of.” She laid a consoling hand on his sun-heated forearm, and all the remaining chill in her bones melted away. “But
it started out really well.”
Today’s delicious lunch had confirmed just how much thought and effort he was willing to devote to something he considered
important. Someone he considered important.
Back in high school, she’d wanted to be his important someone. Maybe she still did.
“Didn’t end that way,” he countered, and she couldn’t argue with that. “You going to back out of our agreement, Dearborn?”
The pink-gold light haloed his head and turned his hair to copper. With her free hand, she smoothed a section ruffled by the
waterside breeze, and the softness of the strands slipping through her fingers surprised her.
His breath hitched at her touch, and she smiled. This time, for real.
“No.” Her arm fell to her side, and she waited for him to touch her in return. “I’m a woman of my word.”
His shoulders dropped a fraction, and the hard muscles under her palm relaxed. “Good. Second activity will be better. Promise.”
She certainly hoped so. “Do you still want me to hang out at the bakery tomorrow?”
“Whenever you want.” His brown eyes bored into hers, and he spoke slowly to emphasize each word. “Long as you want. Always.”
Fumbling a bit, he lifted her hand from his forearm and pressed a kiss to her palm, and she had to suck in a deep, steadying
breath as her knees went wobbly beneath her.
How such an awkward gesture could pierce her heart so deeply, she’d never know. But to her dismay, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t
speak. Could only stare up at him, speechless.
Shaking his head, seemingly at himself, he lowered her arm to her side, let her go, and backed away a step. And with every
inch between them, her thoughts cleared. Enough that she could muster a bit of shaky sass.
She spread her hands in feigned confusion. “What, no goodbye kiss on the lips?”
“Hell, no.” His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, his gaze hot on her mouth.
“I see.” Tempting him with proximity, she leaned closer. So close the fine hairs on her body stood on end, electrified by
his nearness. So close she could taste the mint of his breath with every rise and fall of that broad chest. “Not even one
little peck?”
“No.” Firm. Immediate.
Her lips curved in a taunting smile. “Too dangerous?”
“Too undeserved.” His fingertip carefully smoothed a stray strand of hair off her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. In a lingering, featherlight caress, he traced the sensitive rim of that ear and watched as she shivered beneath his touch. “Next kiss from you? I’ll fucking earn it.”
The pad of his finger lightly rubbed her earlobe and trailed slowly along her neck. A bolt of electric heat raced down her
spine and gathered between her legs, and her lips parted in a silent gasp. But all oxygen had abruptly left the universe,
so there was no air to be found.
That slow, smug grin of his should’ve been illegal. “See you soon, Dearborn.”
By the time she could breathe normally again, he was already stomping down the street toward his bakery, hands in his pockets,
ruddy hair aflame in the late afternoon sun.
Whistling.
“You’re a jerk!” she called after him. “A stupid, sexy jerk!”
Also a clit-tease, but she wasn’t going to holler that down a street.
His laughter was loud enough to echo off the nearby buildings and joyful enough that she couldn’t feel as aggrieved as she
probably should.
“I’ll fucking take it,” he shouted back, and disappeared around a corner before she could either whack him with her bag or
climb him like a truly aggravating yet seductive tree.
So much for her vaunted reserve and legendary calm.
“Freaking Harlot’s Bay,” she complained out loud, then stomped into her ten-foot-wide house and slammed the door. And despite
her best efforts?
She was grinning the whole time.