Anxiety rolled off her in waves. He didn’t need to be a detective to ascertain she didn’t want company nor was she going to be forthcoming about herself or her situation. It wasn’t hard to imagine that she might be hiding from someone or something. That was fine with him. Everyone was entitled to their privacy, but he hoped she was safe here. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his business card and a pen. Writing on the back, he held it out. “If you ever need anything, please, call. And not just for the police. We’re the only two houses out this far, so while I understand the need for privacy, I want you to have my cell phone in case you need anything at all.”
She stared through the screen at the card in his fingertips for so long, he wondered if she was going to take it. Finally, she lifted the latch off the screen door and opened it enough that he could extend the card closer. Her hand was mainly covered by the long sleeves of her oversized sweatshirt, but as her shaking fingertips clasped the card, he could see the edge of a large, red scar on her hand. As soon as her fingertips grasped the card, she allowed the screen door to snap closed and flipped the latch once again. She mumbled her thanks and a goodbye before closing the wooden door, disappearing from his sight.
Being soundly dismissed, he jogged down the porch and back to his SUV. It only took a moment to turn into his own driveway, and he was soon standing in his kitchen, heating a bowl of stew and fixing a sandwich. While cooking the simple meal, he stared out the window toward the house through the trees. Questions flooded his mind, and he was a man who liked figuring out puzzles. Who was the mysterious woman so desperate to remain hidden? Did the sweatshirt provide only warmth or was it a way to cover a longer scar that might extend beyond her hand? And how did she find out about the Hawthorne house if she wasn’t local?
No answers came, and he wrestled with the desire to discover more about her and her apparent desire to maintain privacy. Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. The truth was, as long as she was a law-abiding citizen, she had a right to her secrets. But the memory of her fingers shaking as she reached toward his card had planted her anxiety firmly in his mind. Millie Adair is worth looking into.
Lying in bed reading later that night, he finally tossed his book to his nightstand. He’d always loved reading. Even as a child, he’d read way above his grade level, much to the surprise of some of his teachers and peers. Snorting, he’d discovered at a young age that many people expected him to be dumb simply because his family was poor. He’d enjoyed surprising them.
Sliding down in bed, he turned and could see no evident lights coming from the Hawthorne house. I guess she’s turned in for the night. He tossed several times, trying to find a comfortable position while his earlier questions about her continued to roll through his mind. But one question stayed in the forefront, looming the most. The instant those large, blue eyes turned up to mine, why did I want to pull her into my arms and take away the shadows that I saw?
3
When the handsome man left her porch, Millie stepped to the side of her window so she could watch him without being seen herself.
She’d heard the crunch of tires on the oyster shell driveway, but since she’d already had her food delivered, she wasn’t expecting anyone else. Seeing the police vehicle parked in the front, her heart had pounded as anxiety speared through her. She’d peeked through the curtains and watched as the tall man walked toward her front porch. Not sure what to expect, she was curious to see the man dressed in khakis paired with a burgundy polo. The MPD emblem embroidered over the breast pocket, the radio clipped to his collar, and the police duty belt with his badge clipped to the front gave evidence of his status.
Having no idea why he’d come, she’d hoped she could remain hidden and he’d leave. But just as she’d dropped the corner of the curtains, his head had turned her way, and she knew he’d seen her.
Opening the door when he knocked, she was determined to keep the screen closed and prayed whatever brought him to her door would pass quickly. Her gaze darted upward, noting his height and muscular build, light brown hair, and neatly trimmed beard. Handsome, but after having worked with some of the most attractive men in the public eye, she’d had plenty of experience that someone’s outer appearance gave no evidence to the kind of person they were.
He slid his sunglasses off his face and smiled, and she blinked in surprise. His smile lit his face and reached his eyes, a trait not often found in her adult experiences. But it was his light gray-green eyes, the irises rimmed in brown, that captured her attention. Her mother had always said that you could see a person’s soul in their eyes. The rest of them might prevaricate, but the truth was always found in their eyes. And his eyes held openness, honesty, and, if she wasn’t mistaken, even happiness—all the traits she used to possess but were now lost to her.
Surprised, she dropped her gaze back to the middle of his chest, working to steady her breathing. Staring straight ahead, she read the rest of the embroidered print underneath the police logo. Chief Newman. By then, he’d introduced himself, his deep voice giving her the name of Wyatt.
It had been hard to focus on what else he was saying when all she’d wanted him to do was leave. When he’d handed his card to her, she’d considered refusing but couldn’t think of a good reason quickly enough. Chancing to open the screen door, knowing he’d be able to see her more clearly, she’d forced her fingers to take the card, hoping he didn’t notice the way she shook. After a hasty goodbye, she’d closed the door, knowing it was rude but having expended as much time in his presence as she felt was prudent.
When his vehicle finally drove down her driveway, she let out a long, shaky breath. Licking her dry lips, she glanced down at the card clutched in her fingers.
Wyatt Newman. Chief of police, Manteague, Virginia. Underneath was the non-emergency phone number to the police station, and on the back in neat handwriting was his phone number. Sucking in her lips, she stared at the number as though it held the secrets to the universe. Does he give out his cell number to everyone? When she’d driven to the rental house, she’d come through the quaint town’s main street. Yes, I’ll bet everyone has his phone number.
She shook her head to force her thoughts to clear, then walked into her kitchen, setting the card onto the counter. I’m not here to make friends. I’m not here to cause problems. If there’s one thing I won’t need, it’s the police chief’s phone number. The very handsome, kind police chief.
At least, she hoped she wouldn’t need him. She wondered if the paparazzi craze to find her would die down now that she’d disappeared.
With the sun dipping lower in the sky, she made the rounds of her house, checking all the locks. Returning to her kitchen, she pulled out a protein shake from her refrigerator. The thinness of her wrist peeked from the sleeve of her sweatshirt, giving evidence of the weight she’d lost. Always petite, she’d found it challenging to eat in the past months.
Walking through her bedroom on her way to the bathroom, she grabbed her pajamas. As soon as the water warmed, she stripped and stepped underneath the gentle stream. With her head tilted back, she washed her hair before pulling on her soft shower gloves. Now armored, she squirted the lavender soap onto her hands and washed her body while keeping her eyes pinned onto the tile in front of her. The gloves allowed her to wash while muting the feel of her skin.