CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 9

Now, as she once again stood on the back deck, the tip of her cigarette glowing in the October night, she found herself caught in memories of Gideon and what they'd shared—the glee, the sex, the guilt. All of it.

From the moment she'd clicked the bracelet over her wrist, she'd found herself fantasizing about him. Gideon had brought some much-needed excitement into her otherwise drab life. Marilee had begun to pull away from her as she entered high school, becoming more independent. It was natural—a positive development—but it left an emotional hole. Neal had been wrapped up in his career as a corporate attorney, working long hours. When he did have time off, he was out of the house for his Wednesday poker nights and Saturday morning golf games, expanding his life beyond their small family. Well, some of that had been a lie. He'd been spending time with someone else, she'd learned, which was the reason they'd split.

Neither her husband nor her daughter needed her as much any longer, nor did the start-up company that had let her go after taking most of her retirement funds.

When Gideon came along she was feeling alone and useless, as if her life was spiraling into a dull, black hole.

"No excuse," she whispered into the night as Shep reappeared and looked up at her. "Promise," she added, as if the dog could understand her.

Over the past few months she'd done a little research online, trying to find more information about Gideon as her obsession grew. At first pass she'd found he had no serious social media presence. No google info. There were many entries under the name of Gideon Ross of course, but none seemed to match the intriguing man with the sailboat. Finding no information, she'd let it go and hadn't dug any deeper.

Not knowing more about him had added an edge to him, an aura of mystery that she hadn't been eager to puncture.

She'd been a fool. A stupid, gullible fool! That much was more than apparent now.

Brooke drew on her filter tip once more, then jabbed out the half-smoked cigarette on the underside of the deck's rail. She would wrap the butt in an old bit of trash and take the bag out to the bin outside the garage to hide it from Neal and Marilee. No reason to start a fight or give her daughter any ideas.

She thought again about the bracelet, which she'd hidden in the birdhouse with her cigarettes. She wasn't going to go through the melodrama of returning it to him again, no. She would give it away. Donate it anonymously and be done with it. She made a mental note to add it to her ever-expanding to-do list, then glanced once more at the sloping backyard and the city beyond it. As she turned to go inside, she looked up at the window of the master bedroom, still dark, only the faintest of light seeping through the window near the bump out for the old staircase, the "fire escape" that crawled up from the laundry room to the attic. At least she hadn't woken Neal.

Shep followed her inside and she secured the door, turning the dead bolt and double-checking the lock. She opened the cupboard for the garbage, then shoved the butt of her cigarette deep into the coffee grounds she'd tossed out earlier. Satisfied she'd destroyed the evidence and feeling foolish that she'd gone to such lengths, she swept up the sack from the wastebasket under the sink and carried it through an alcove off the living area. The door was locked thankfully, and she took the trash outside and along the path to the spot where they kept the large recycling and trash bins.

Before she went inside she heard a noise: the scrape of leather against concrete. A footstep? At this time of night? Standing on tiptoe, straining her ankle, she peered over the gate and stared at the deserted street at the front of the house. Watery blue light from a single lamppost illuminated the wide entrance to the park.

Was there someone moving between the trees? Brooke squinted, the hairs at the back of her neck rising. It wasn't unusual for people to be inside the community's wrought-iron barricade; the gates were never closed and the city had its share of people out at night.

She caught a movement, a shadow that seemed to dart between the thickets of pine and fir.

So what?

But it wasn't the quicksilver umbra of a nocturnal animal as it moved silently through the trees that bothered her. It was a primal sense, something deep inside that insisted she was being observed, a strong, almost visceral feeling that predatory eyes she couldn't see were watching her, sizing up the house.

She scanned the perimeter fencing and beyond, where the lamplight glowed dim, giving the surrounding grounds a gray, washed-out aura. The tall trees seemed to shift, leaves rustling in the slight breeze. And somewhere deep within the near darkness were those eyes, watching her.

You're just being paranoid. Stop it! Get over yourself!

She spied no one staring at her from the shadows, so she stepped back inside, locking the door behind her. She pressed against the steel, testing its strength.

In the kitchen she was able to slip a new liner into the trash can under the sink without turning on any lights. Then she started for the stairs, but she nearly bumped into the dog, who was standing at the front door.

"Come on," she whispered, but Shep didn't move, his head low, his hackles raised, a rumble of a growl in the back of his throat.

"What?" she whispered, then looked through the sidelight. No one was on the porch. But as she gazed farther, across the street, through the gauzy light from the lamppost, she noticed a dark figure standing just outside the weak pool of illumination.

Man or woman?

Friend or foe?

Innocent or evil?

Of course she couldn't tell.

But her heart stopped for a second and her fingers touched the lock on the door, making certain it was bolted.

Again Shep growled, brown fur at his nape standing on end.

The shadowy being stepped out of the light and disappeared.

There one second, gone the next.

She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat.

It's nothing! Nothing. This is the city. There are homeless and night owls and night-shift workers whose hours are turned around and—

The dog remained at the door, nose to the panels, black lips curling slightly. A warning that something—no, someone—was out there.

And, she decided, it wasn't someone good.

Heart knocking, she squinted as a car slowly passed, headlights glowing in the dark, flooding the road for a second as it passed. Then the street was empty. If not for the dog's tense body and growl, she would have thought whoever was out there had left. They were safe here, the three of them in the locked house with the dog. And then, Neal had a gun, secured in a safe in his den, never needed, never used. She took in a deep breath, calming herself, then touched the dog's head.

"Come on," she said softly. "Let's go." She snapped her fingers, and finally, Shep turned his attention to her and followed her as she quietly stole upstairs.

On the second floor Brooke checked on Marilee, silently opening her door to see that her daughter was burrowed under the covers, dark hair and one arm visible against the sheets.

Safe.

Good.

She didn't object when the dog stole inside and hopped onto the bed, curling at the foot before looking up at Brooke expectantly. "Okay," she whispered, "but just this once." She shut the door.

Back in her bedroom, she slipped noiselessly between the sheets, careful not to wake Neal.

As her head found the pillow, she closed her eyes, intent on forcing sleep.

A few minutes ticked by and she heard a creak in the old timbers of the house. No big deal. It happened all the time. Nothing was wrong. A hundred-year-old house still settles, aging joists sometimes squeaking or groaning.

You're letting your imagination run wild.

So someone was in the park in the early morning hours, so what?

It just so happens the park is directly across the street. Big effin' deal.

Get over yourself.

She quieted her mind.

Consciously relaxed her tense muscles.

Started to drift off . . .

Footsteps!

As if someone were running!

Down the stairs!

But no one was up.

Instantly alert, she rose on an elbow, her ears straining.

"You shouldn't do that," her husband admonished her.

She nearly jumped out of her skin.

What was he talking about? Then it hit her. He knew? About Gideon?

She didn't respond. Maybe Neal was just talking in his sleep, or—

"It's not good for you."

"What?" she asked, hardly daring to breathe, lying down again. No one was on the stairs. She had imagined the noise as she started to fall asleep.

"Smoking." His voice was stern. "You know how I feel about it, and all the health risks it brings with it."

Oh crap! He smelled it on her. She hadn't taken the time to wash her face and hands, or to use any breath mints, as she always did when she snuck a cigarette. But it was so long since she'd actually smoked, she'd forgotten. "Don't worry about it."

"But I do, Brooke," he said quietly.

She wondered if he was talking about more than her sneaking a cigarette. "You don't have to—"

"I always worry about you."

"Neal, what're you talking about?" she asked, deciding now, in the middle of the damned night, was when they were going to actually have it out. She braced herself for the midnight accusations. He'd only moved back into the house in the last few weeks and she was just getting used to him being around again.

Hence the imminent need to break up with Gideon.

She leaned closer to her husband. "Neal? What—?"

But he was already drifting off, his breathing becoming steady. In the faint light she saw that his eyes were closed. The conversation was over and that was a good thing, right? No confession necessary.

Soon he was snoring again and she was wound tight as the spring on a stopwatch. She got up and washed her hands and face, brushed her teeth and even flossed, all in the dark. Her features were ghostly in the bathroom mirror, pale, taut skin, accentuated by the dim glow of a single night-light. She splashed more water onto her face and was on her way back to bed when she passed by the bedroom window overlooking the backyard and the view of Seattle's lights and the dark waters of Elliott Bay beyond. Somewhere out there, presumably sleeping in the berth of his sailboat, was Gideon.

Once he'd been the spark in her life.

The hidden joy.

The little secret she'd kept hidden.

A fantasy that had become oh so real.

A dream.

And now he was a nightmare.

She leaned her head against the panes and glanced down at the yard to see him standing there, face turned up, right in the middle of the garden.

She almost cried out but bit back the scream, and as a cloud passed by the moon, allowing its luminance to play over the landscape, she realized it wasn't Gideon in the middle of her yard but the fountain, now broken and dry, standing in its usual spot.

He wasn't in the yard.

He never was.

"Come to bed," Neal said groggily, awake again. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

"You didn't yell and what's going on? I thought you were asleep."

"In and out. Dozing." He patted the mattress softly. "Come on, Brooke."

Once again she slid between the bedsheets, the duvet thick and cozy over her, Neal's arm sliding familiarly around her waist.

This should be enough, she told herself. This man, our house, the daughter we share; it should be enough.

But was anything, ever?

And at that moment, not far away, she heard the sound of a motorcycle's engine fire.

Her insides congealed.

She heard the bike's engine whine and catch as the rider sped through the city, engine whining, then catching to rev again as the rider put the motorcycle through its gears.

Brooke's fingers twisted in the pillowcase.

He'd been there.

She knew it.

Gideon had been outside the house. Watching. Waiting.

And maybe he'd been inside, she thought wildly. Hadn't she heard footsteps?

The doors were locked, though. She'd double-checked. Did he have a key, or had he been trapped inside . . . watching her from inside the house rather than through the windows? Walking one step behind her as . . .

Oh God . . . but . . . no, the dog would have sensed him.

The back of her throat went dry as sand.

Why would he risk coming here?

For you, Brooke.

He wants you.

It's not that he loves you.

Don't kid yourself. You know better. He won't let you go. Not ever.

He wants toown you.

"Never," she whispered, and Neal stirred beside her.

She held her tongue then and stared at the window.

She couldn't let him destroy her life.

Somehow, some way, she had to get rid of him.

It was as simple as that.