Silver Falls - Anne Stuart [28]
He knew that she wanted him. Her careful way of avoiding him, of never meeting his gaze, of being studiously distant and polite, simply covered the same longing he felt for her. He had to be very delicate about it. She was young and shy, despite what her mother said. Her friend had been easier—older, more self-assured. He could bless Tessa for bringing him to Sophie. This was who he’d been waiting for, the one to make him complete. Not her mother. And it had all been sheer luck. He’d found Tessa, and she’d been perfect for a time, and when he’d finished he should have been able to go back to his normal life.
But he couldn’t keep away from the funeral, and the moment he saw Sophie, he knew she was meant for him.
For a short while he’d hoped he could be like other men. That Rachel would be the answer until Sophie came of age.
But his needs were growing stronger.
He opened the trunk of the car and took a step back, assailed by the stench. Rotting flesh. He should have dumped her weeks ago, but for some reason the chance never came up. He had to admit that a certain part of him enjoyed knowing she was back there, wrapped in a tarp. He liked driving Rachel around, telling her about the bloated deer corpse he’d accidentally run over. She’d believed him, the silly cow. Because she adored him.
He took the cans of air freshener and sprayed them liberally through the trunk. He should have gone up to Costco and bought a case—it was taking forever to get rid of the smell. But then, someone might have noticed, and he was a very careful man.
He closed the trunk again, then opened the back door of the garage to release some of the lingering odor. It was getting close to three o’clock—if she wasn’t back to the car then he’d be able to pick up Sophie. He always liked those moments. She would sit beside him in the car, her hands clasped in her lap, her long legs beneath the school uniform deliberately enticing him. Maybe he’d take her for a drive, talk to her about how depressed her mother had been. He’d explain that Rachel had been hiding it from her daughter, but that she was indeed a deeply troubled woman.
He needed to be careful, though. Sophie was smart as a whip, and devoted to her mother.
There was no hurry. At least, he hoped not. He was making very sure that all his bases were covered, now that Caleb was back in town. And if he was lucky, he could ride this for another few years.
But he wasn’t quite sure if he could tolerate Rachel that long. She seemed to accept his departure from their marriage bed with good grace, and she hadn’t minded when he’d withdrawn more and more.
Maybe she’d behave herself, learn her place, preparing her daughter.
Otherwise, one slip and the falls could take her. And no one would ever know he’d been the one to push.
6
“This place is a death trap,” Rachel said, standing in the middle of what should have been the living room, oblivious to the ancient bloodstain on the plywood beneath her.
Caleb stripped off his rain-soaked slicker and hung it on one of the nails, turning to her. “An interesting way of looking at things. Why do you say that?”
“I nearly fell through one of the steps.” She was making no effort to divest herself of her muddy clothes. “Are you going to drive me down to town?”
“I should have warned you about that one. Upkeep on this place isn’t a high priority.”
“I can see that.” She looked around her, and he could practically read her mind. The place was a disaster—a half-constructed architect’s dream that had suffered the indignities of rain, wind and abandonment for the last fifteen years. He’d tacked fresh tarps on the western side of the frame to keep the wind from blowing through, but he hadn’t gotten around to replacing the shredded blue fabric that covered the roof, and there were pools of rain water at regular intervals on the warped floor. “So why does this place look familiar?” she said suddenly pushing back the hood of her raincoat.
“Good eye. It was designed and built by the architect who did David’s house. And yours.”
He