The Perfect Husband - Lisa Gardner [120]
Tess couldn’t stand the distance anymore. J.T. was the one who played tough. Tess knew she was overwhelmed and frightened and near despair. She curled her naked body spoonlike around his, though she knew he resented the contact.
He stiffened. She held on anyway, pressing her cheek against him.
“She’s starting to remember,” he said abruptly.
Tess stilled, then stroked her fingers down his shoulder in silent comfort. “You’ll help her.”
“She made me promise never to mention him again.”
“Give her time. Sooner or later she’ll need to talk about it. She’ll come to you, and you’ll be ready.”
“Rachel used to tell me that I had to let things go. That I held on too tight.”
“Maybe.”
“I failed her, Tess. You should’ve seen the look in her eyes . . . I didn’t even know how much I’d failed her until I saw her memories in her eyes.”
“Shh . . .”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then abruptly he rolled onto his back. She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but his fingers touched her cheek softly.
“Don’t do it.”
“I have to. Everyone has fought the battle but me. Everyone has paid the price but me.”
“So that’s when you’ll be happy? When he finally kills you?” His voice was tight, his muscles tense to the touch.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“Well, I do. Go away, Tess. Go hide out in some hotel in Arizona and I’ll pretend to be you in the house.”
“You’re injured.”
His muscle spasmed and she knew she’d inflicted an immeasurable blow to his masculine pride. “Don’t you trust me, Tess?”
She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. She threaded her fingers through the dark hair on his belly. “It can’t be just you, J.T.,” she whispered, “trying to save the world. No one is that strong. It will be you and me together in the house. I’ll be bait, you be ready to catch the rat.”
“I won’t have you die on me.”
“I won’t.”
“I’m so tired of them dying on me.” His voice was hoarse.
She held him closer. “I love you,” she whispered.
Neither of them spoke.
EDITH SAT IN the living room of Martha’s house, holding a cup filled with black tea and watching Martha’s granddaughter read a book on the couch with Martha sitting beside her.
The living room really wasn’t much. The sofa was old and threadbare and had probably been purchased from Goodwill. Like the other few pieces of furniture, it reminded Edith of the clothes Martha selected—old, eclectic, and mismatching. There weren’t even pictures on the walls. Edith had never noticed that before. In the whole house there wasn’t a single picture or framed photograph.
Edith forced her gaze back to the little girl. Her name was Stephanie, and she seemed to be a somber, quiet child. She wore a thick sweat suit with a baseball cap covering her hair and eyes. Her face nagged at Edith mildly, as if she’d met Stephanie before. Of course, little kids had a tendency to all look alike to her.
She focused on examining her tea as Stephanie continued reading the story of Cinderalla out loud.
Edith was just picturing the pumpkin stagecoach in her mind, when the chills swept up her arms.
She looked up and wished she hadn’t.
Girls, so many girls. She’d never seen so many at once before. Here in this living room their features were so clear, she thought she could reach out and touch them. How could Martha not see them? How could Stephanie talk of mice turning magically into footmen while a dozen ethereal shapes swarmed around them, naked and ashamed?
Her chest hurt, the pressure squeezing her ribs like a vise. She opened her mouth. She tried to yell at them to leave her alone; she was just an old woman and she didn’t know what they wanted.
Then she realized that they weren’t looking at her, not pleading with her with their tortured eyes. Instead, they stared at Martha and Stephanie, and their distress was plain.
Edith bolted upright. She spilled her tea across her lap, not noticing the burn.
“Martha!” she gasped. “You’re in danger! Horrible, horrible danger!”
Stephanie