Into the Fire - Anne Stuart [43]
Maybe she’d left them downstairs. But that was unlikely—she wasn’t comfortable enough with Dillon that she’d kick off her shoes in his presence. She always had the unconscious need to run when she was around him, and taking off her shoes would only hinder her escape.
The bathroom? Possible, but not probable. The last time she’d seen her shoes they’d been neatly arranged at the foot of her mattress. And now they were gone, just like her purse.
She would have blamed Dillon if she could, but Dillon didn’t want her there. She sat back down on the mattress and shivered in the icy room. It was cold enough that she could see her breath, and she suddenly had an even more unnerving thought.
Maybe the heat hadn’t gone off at all. Maybe the room was icy cold because she wasn’t alone in there. She’d seen enough movies—the temperature dropped when a ghost was there. And she’d felt as if someone was watching her ever since she set foot inside the garage.
“Nate?” she whispered in a soft voice. “Are you here?”
No answer, of course, and she wondered if she could feel any more stupid. But she persevered. “I don’t believe in ghosts, but if you’d be anywhere I guess you’d be here, where you died such a violent death. Are you here to warn me about something?”
Silence. Jamie took a deep breath. “I’m not afraid of you, Nate. You’d never hurt me in life, and you certainly wouldn’t in death. Do you want me to be here? Do you want me to find out what really happened to you? Did you take my purse and shoes? Do you know where the hell they are?”
It was a stupid question and she didn’t expect an answer. “I need to get out of here, Nate,” she said, trying one last time. “I need to get away from Dillon. You should understand that. You knew what I was feeling, even when I didn’t. I need to get out of here.”
There was a sudden clanking sound, followed by a thud and the screech of metal against metal, and she jumped. A moment later the heat duct behind her spewed out a wave of blessed heat, and Jamie just stared at the register in shock.
“If that’s a sign I’m not sure what it means. But I’m going downstairs to find a pair of Dillon’s shoes and get the hell out of here. I’m sorry, Nate.”
The heat was filling the room as quickly as the early morning light, and Jamie pushed herself off the mattress and went to the door, removing the chair as quietly as she could. Dillon had to be in bed—she’d sat there huddled in the corner, listening to the sounds of his footsteps hours after she’d run from him. He hadn’t even hesitated as he passed her door.
The key in the lock made a faint rusty noise, but the sound of the furnace was noisy enough to muffle it. Besides, Dillon’s bedroom was at the end of the hallway—he wouldn’t have heard her.
The floor creaked beneath her feet, every step she took, and she cursed under her breath. But she didn’t hesitate.
The hallway was shrouded in darkness, but she didn’t dare turn on the light. She made her way down by instinct, trying not to remember the feel of the dead rat beneath her bare feet. It couldn’t happen two days in a row.
She pushed open the kitchen door, expecting the chaos of the night before. He’d swept everything off the table, onto the floor, when he’d lifted her on there, and she’d heard the sound of breaking glass as he pushed her down on the wood. She’d have to be careful where she stepped.
The kitchen was spotless. The dishes were washed, the empty beer bottles had disappeared, the floor was swept clean. Even the omnipresent ashtrays were empty.
Either Dillon was neater than he’d first appeared, or he’d been restless last night. Unable to sleep, just like Jamie.
There were no shoes. The row of pegs still held sweaters and jackets, but there were no boots or shoes underneath. She couldn’t remember if there had been before.
She opened the door onto the alleyway