Dead Certain - Mariah Stewart [81]
“I need to stop at my place for just a minute. I need to pick up a few things,” he said.
“Okay.”
They drove in silence for several blocks before making a right turn onto a narrow side street where the houses were small and for the most part nondescript. Sean pulled into a gravel driveway and turned off the engine.
“Since I’m not comfortable leaving you out here alone, I guess you’re going to have to come on in.”
“Okay.” She unlocked her door and jumped out onto the stones and followed him to the front door. A soft rain had just begun to fall, and the sky continued to darken. Large fat clouds gathered overhead at a steady clip.
The house was small and brick with white shutters and no front porch. Three concrete steps led directly to the front door. There was no name on the black metal mailbox affixed to the front of the house, no shrubs or flowers, nothing to lend even a trace of warmth to the property. Scruffy grass ran right up to the foundation, and all of the wood trim—windows, shutters, door—looked like their next paint job was already several years overdue.
Sean unlocked the door and swung it open, stepped aside to let Amanda enter the narrow foyer.
“I’ll just be a minute.” He moved past her to turn on a lamp in the living room.
“I guess I’ll just wait here. . . .” she said, even though he’d already left the room on his way to the stairwell.
She looked around the living room, marveling at the sparseness of the furnishings.
Sparse? She almost laughed out loud. This was beyond sparse. The living room held one dark brown leather chair and an ottoman, both of indeterminable age, and a table painted white upon which sat the lamp he’d turned on. There were stacks of books on the floor on either side of the chair, hardbacks and paperbacks in small haphazard towers, one of which had slumped over to spread out under the table. There was nothing else in the room. No television. No pictures on the wall. Nothing. The walls were all stark white.
She stepped forward through what she assumed was intended to have been the dining room. What might have served as a dining table under other circumstances held an open laptop and piles of paper, files with their contents partly exposed, and stacks of newspaper articles. The lone wooden chair sat pushed up to the table.
Into the kitchen, where counters stood empty and the sink held nothing but a coffee mug. The one surprise was the color on the walls.
“Admiring the decor?” he asked dryly from the doorway.
“Sorry. I was just wandering. Sorry.”
“Now you and Greer will have something else to talk about.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She frowned.
“She’s always on my back about not having any furniture. She says I live like a hermit.”
“Well, you have to admit that you have a lot of empty space just waiting to be filled here.” She chose her words carefully, and it made him laugh.
“I’ll have to remember that next time Greer starts in on me. She thinks it’s cold as a tomb. I’ll just tell her it’s empty space waiting to be filled.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what she thinks I ought to do. I’m just renting here.”
“Lots of people rent, but they still find ways to make the place their home.”
When he didn’t respond, she said, “I like the dark red walls in the kitchen.”
“Greer did it. Said the place needed some color.”
Actually, what Greer had said was that the dark red suited his moody personality, but he felt no need to go into that.
She followed him into the dining room. “You know what they say, there’s no place like home.”
“Well, maybe that’s it then.” He turned off the lights, giving her no choice but to head for the front door. “I’ve never really had one.”
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, well.” He turned on the outside light, avoiding her eyes.
“Sean, I—”
“It’s okay, Amanda.” He locked the door. “Let’s just forget about it, okay?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered to his back as she trudged across the uneven lawn to the Jeep, dodging the rain that had begun to fall in earnest. “I’m so sorry. . . .”