Silent Run - Barbara Freethy [54]
Sarah immediately nodded in agreement. “I would feel too vulnerable eating out somewhere, not knowing if someone was watching us.”
“Why don’t we order in some Chinese or pizza? What’s your pleasure?” He walked over to the phone and saw a couple of take-out menus on the counter. “Looks like you’ve done this before.”
“Chinese is fine. I’d like—”
“Mongolian beef, cashew chicken, and fried rice,” Jake said, cutting her off.
She looked at him in surprise. “I was going to say that.”
“I know. They’re your favorites.”
She cocked her head to one side, giving him a thoughtful look. “It’s strange to be with someone who knows me better than I know myself.”
“I don’t think that’s true at all,” Jake said with a sigh. “I know who you pretended to be when you were Sarah Tucker. But I’m beginning to wonder if anyone knows the real you—including you.”
* * *
Dylan didn’t know what herbs Catherine Hilliard had put in his hot tea, but the drink had a kick to it. He was feeling energized and ready to get down to business. Unfortunately Catherine had told him that any further questions would have to wait until after she took her dogs out for their afternoon run. The dogs in question were two golden retrievers who apparently loved the ocean. From his vantage point on her deck, he could see her throwing sticks into the water, the dogs bounding in enthusiastically, with no regard for the rough, cold waves.
Catherine didn’t seem to care when the dogs shook water all over her. She was certainly an earthy sort of woman in her paint-spattered clothes and her bare feet. He didn’t know what to make of her—or her story about her friend Jessica, but he definitely knew that he wanted to learn more about both of them.
As Catherine and the dogs moved farther down the beach, he let out a sigh. It was obvious they weren’t coming back anytime soon, which meant more waiting, and he hated to wait. The open door to Catherine’s cottage beckoned to him. After her initial wariness, she’d offered him nothing but hospitality. He couldn’t believe she’d left him—a total stranger—alone in her house without any concern for the security of her belongings. He could have stolen everything of value in the cottage since she’d poured him a cup of tea, told him to relax, and taken off down the beach. Then again, there didn’t appear to be much of value in her home. Aside from one very small TV on her kitchen table, there were no other electronic devices that he’d seen, no computers or stereos or MP3 players—nothing, unless they were tucked away in the bedroom.
Unable to resist the lure of his own curiosity, he walked back into the house, through the kitchen, and into the dining room where her easel was set up. He knelt down and looked through some of the paintings that were piled up against her wall. What he saw surprised him. He wasn’t much of a judge of art, but there was certainly a sinister tone to Cather-ine’s work. He frowned as he studied one dark painting after another. The colors were reds, blacks, browns, the images abstract, some with ghostly appearances, others that seemed purely evil.
There was a definite mood to her work, anger, restlessness, frustration, and a sense of injustice. At least those were the emotions he felt when he looked at her paintings. How could such a pretty young woman paint such black moments?
The painting on the easel, showing Sarah’s look-alike sitting in a beautiful meadow, was a departure from Catherine’s other work. It was almost as if Catherine wanted to protect her memories and images of Jessica by permanently putting her in a calm, restful place.
Which brought him back to his original question: Was Catherine’s friend Jessica really Sarah?
“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” Catherine said.
Dylan turned in surprise. She’d come in so quietly he hadn’t heard her. His instincts were usually much sharper. She must have left the dogs outside.
“Yes, thanks for the tea,” he replied. “It had a kick to it.”
“You looked like