She managed to stir herself long enough to protest, “Mrs. Morse wouldn’t hurt me!”
“I’m not saying she would,” Dr. Turner said patiently. “I’m just saying you should watch out. I expect the police should be out sometime in the afternoon—in the meantime, sit tight and don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry,” she echoed, leaning back in shock and the first stirrings of justifiable outrage. “Hell and damnation!”
Thirteen
He had considered going out and getting thoroughly drunk. However, Patrick had never made a habit of blotting out his memories with alcohol, and six o’clock in the morning wasn’t the time to start. While part of him wanted to forget everything that happened the night before, from the moment he’d let his fury give him just enough excuse to enter her bedroom in the middle of the night, until the moment he left her, lying there, sound asleep, the saltwater tracks of dried tears on her pale face, her lips swollen from his mouth, her face flushed and absurdly happy in sleep.
Why the hell had he touched her?
And even more important, why had she lied to him?
If he’d known, he would have been even more determined to keep away from her, though right now he was so angry and twisted up inside that he wasn’t quite sure why. After all, he’d married her. They’d entered into a sensible, business arrangement, based on mutual affection and good judgment, and it had turned drastically wrong even before their wedding day.
They’d never discussed just how much of a marriage it was going to be, and he’d assumed that sooner or later they’d get around to sex. To make those grandchildren his father had wanted so damned much.
But as things had gone from bad to worse, and she’d flung her lovers and her hatred in his face, his own mixed longing had chilled. He’d always wanted her. But he’d been just as determined not to have her.
And now it was too late. He’d spent a night in her bed, doing at least some of the things he’d dreamed about when he’d had no control of his fantasies. And he wanted to do more.
He wasn’t going to. He was getting the hell out of there, long enough to cool down. To come to his senses. To figure out what the hell was going on here.
Because it was finally getting through his thick skull that something was happening around here. Nothing was as it seemed. In the last few hours his life had turned upside down.
If he’d been wrong about Molly he could be wrong about a great many other things. Like whether or not she’d been pushed into the cellar. Like whether someone was really out to hurt her, as she’d insisted.
Something had been nagging at the back of his mind, some hidden scrap of memory. He wasn’t going to sit around on his butt and wait to see what happened. He was going out to find a few answers himself. Just to assure himself that she wasn’t in any kind of danger.
When he got back maybe he and Molly could come to some sort of amicable agreement. She could go where she wanted, do what she wanted.
Anything to get his peace of mind back.
And by the time spring rolled around he probably wouldn’t even think about her more than once a day.
All day long.
When Molly returned to the kitchen she looked at the inhabitants with new eyes. Mrs. Morse was cleaning with a violence, her stern and spare body radiating disapproval. Toby was staring out the window, an odd, abstracted expression on his face, the sunlight reflecting off his wire-rimmed glasses, and Uncle Willy had just come down, hung-over as usual, the orange hair combed with its usual finicky neatness, his eyes pale and bloodshot and weary.
“Well, well, Molly,” he murmured as he poured a cup of Mrs. Morse’s excellent coffee. “You’re looking absolutely stunning this morning.”
“Afternoon,” she said absently, staring at all of them in turn.
“I’ve already told her so,” Toby announced in a playful voice that still held a slightly possessive edge.
Uncle Willy thumped Toby on the back. “Sly young dog,” he said approvingly. “Don’t miss a trick, do you? Ah, well, when I was your age...”
“Where’s Aunt Ermy?” Molly broke in suddenly.
“Ermy?” Willy repeated, befuddled. “I don’t know, my dear. She should be around somewhere.”
Molly drew herself together with a monumental effort. “I believe the police might be coming by later. They’ll probably want to have a word with all of you.”
The silence was absolute, as the three other inhabitants of the kitchen stared at her in horror that might have been mixed with guilt.
Mrs. Morse spoke first. “You’ll not be saying something’s happened to Patrick?”
Uncle Willy snorted bravely. “Not him. He’s got nine lives, that one has.” His face remained a ghastly white, despite the determined smile. “What are you talking about, Molly? Why should the police be coming here?” he demanded. “Have they...have they discovered something new about your accident?”
