Текст книги "Take Care, Sara"

Автор книги: Lindy Zart

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“What are you doing to yourself?” he murmured.

Sara had no response. When she tried to pull away, Lincoln held her nearer. She closed her eyes, exhaling deeply.

“Stop doing it.” His hands moved to the sides of her head and he smoothed her tangled hair from her face, gently pushing her away and leaning down so their eyes met. “You’re not alone. Don’t ever feel like you’re alone. You know that, right?”

Sara stared at the gold flecks in his eyes, swallowing thickly. His eyes were silver and gold. She jerked her head in a semblance of a nod.

Lincoln sighed deeply and dropped his hands. “Go. I’ll wait here.”

She blinked her eyes against the tears, but they kept coming. “Lincoln, I…I can’t. I can’t go there.” Sara took a shaky breath, moving to put the table between them.

He looked at her for a long time. “But you will take a shower?” Lincoln finally asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll take it.” He nodded his head in the direction of the bathroom, one eyebrow lifted.

Sara slowly walked toward the bathroom. “What will you do?” she asked when she reached it.

“I’ll be right here.” He patted the back of the cream-colored couch.

Once inside the bathroom, Sara fell against the closed door, struggling to get air into her lungs. She went to the mirror. A hollow-eyed, haunted face stared back. Her eyes had always been big, but now they almost looked cartoonish. Large and dark in a white face. Sara gripped the counter and leaned over it, staring down at the sink. A drop of water dripped from the faucet, disappearing down the drain into the dark unknown. That’s what she felt like. Sara was being sucked into a black hole of nothingness, and once that happened, she would disappear. She would cease to exist.

“How’s that shower going?”

Sara jumped at the sound of Lincoln’s voice on the other side of the door. She wanted him to go away and leave her alone with her misery and despondency. She wanted the world to go away. Sara sighed. That wouldn’t be happening. And she knew Lincoln well enough to know once his mind was set, there was no changing it. He wouldn’t be going anywhere either.

She rubbed her face and turned on the faucet in the shower, the small tan-walled room quickly steaming up with moisture and heat. Sara untied her robe and let it drop to the floor. The worn and ratty robe had been a gift from him and taking it off was shedding a security blanket. It was removing a piece of him from her and doing so for even a short period of time was painful to her. She practically lived in the thing. Its frayed and unraveled fabric was proof of that. Sara removed the rest of her clothes and got into the shower.

***

After quickly throwing on an old UW-Platteville sweatshirt of his and jeans that almost hung on her, Sara hurried from the room too many memories lived in and walked into the kitchen. The scent of coffee hit her along with fried eggs and toast. She looked from the table where a steaming mug of coffee and a glass of orange juice sat with a plate of one egg and two slices of toast over to where Lincoln leaned with his elbows against the counter, his eyes on her.

Sundays had been their breakfast days. They’d sleep in late and make a mess out of the kitchen preparing a midday feast. Sara had been in charge of the eggs and potatoes and he’d always prepared the pancakes and bacon. He’d made the best pancakes. They’d melted on her tongue and she always overate on Sundays. She hadn’t had pancakes in over a year, not since the last time he’d made them. A lot of things had stopped with him; her, for one.

Sara inhaled sharply, looking away from Lincoln’s intent stare. It didn’t matter. She still felt the heat of his eyes on her. Those stormy gray eyes were studying, judging. Those eyes were not happy. “I should have stopped by sooner. I didn’t realize you’d gotten this bad.”

Sara tucked wet, limp hair behind her ears. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. I really wish you’d quit saying you’re fine when you are so obviously not fine.” He straightened and walked to the table, pulling out a chair. “Sit. Eat.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working today?”

“Yeah. I was.”

He was until she’d called. Lincoln didn’t have to say the words, but she knew that’s what had happened. Sara swallowed as guilt heated her skin. “I’m sorry.”

“Stop being sorry, Sara.”

She grabbed the back of a chair and lowered herself into it, staring down at the plate. The thought of food made her stomach turn. It usually did. “How…how are things going? At work?”

He poured himself a cup of coffee, sitting down across from her at the table. “Work is work.” The room shrank with him inside it; big and towering and intense. It made Sara nervous. She’d never realized how large of a presence he had; how commanding it was.

Lincoln and he had owned a carpentry business together: Walker Building. They’d done everything from roofs to siding to interior renovation. The company did basically anything house-related, other than plumbing. That they didn’t do. Now Lincoln ran it by himself; the lone brother where they should be two. More work, more stress, less help, because of Sara. He was without a lot of things these days, because of her.

Sara took a piece of toast, her eyes stinging. Lincoln had cut the toast for her. In triangles. Why was he so nice to her when it was her fault his brother wasn’t around? She would never understand that. How Lincoln could be so forgiving. He was the one person she had expected to loathe her, above all others, and he was the one person she’d been so wrong about.

“Did I cut it wrong?”

She looked up, the toast still in her hand. “No. You cut it right.”

He paused with the mug to his lips. “Good to know.”

The toast was dry and Sara choked down half of one slice to appease Lincoln. She drank the juice and sipped at the coffee. The silence was drawn out to the point of uncomfortable. Sara repeatedly opened her mouth to tell him about the phone conversation with Dr. Henderson, but she held back. It was her burden alone. And when Lincoln did find out, what then? She didn’t want to tell him until she had no choice. But he had a right to know. Sara knew that. It still wasn’t enough of an incentive for her to tell him. Not yet. She needed more time.

It was cowardly of her, but that was inconsequential when she thought of the alternative. Would he turn his back on her when he found out? Would he no longer look at her with compassion, but with loathing? And why did the thought make her stomach clench? Because he’s all I have left of him. Startled by the thought, Sara unconsciously jerked, her hand hitting the coffee mug. It didn’t tip. Lincoln reached over and grabbed it before it did. He slowly slid the mug to her right, far enough away so there was no chance of her accidently bumping it.

“How long has it been since you’ve gone there?”

She stiffened. Sara knew where he was talking about. There was no pretending she didn’t. “A few weeks.” Two. It had been two weeks and two days.

At first Sara had gone every day to the place where her husband rested, for hours and hours at a time. But the longer she’d gone to that place and stared down at what was supposed to be her husband and wasn’t, the harder it had been. She didn’t want to remember him that way; Sara wanted to remember him as he’d been alive. She’d feared all her old memories of him would fade away and be replaced with the nothingness he now was.

Sara had hidden away in her house that used to be their house and tried to ignore reality. It was stupid of her to think such a thing was possible; the pain was alive in her; there was no way to escape it as long as she drew air into her lungs. Sara hated herself for staying away as long as she had, and yet she continued to stay away.

The last time she’d seen him had been the day she’d gone to Wyalusing State Park. The day it all had been too much. The day she’d been unable to exist with the constant ache anymore. When the pain had been too much, unbearable; when she’d looked at what was supposed to be her husband and hated herself more than she’d ever thought possible. That was the day she’d wanted to end it all, the day she’d yearned for a way to stop the pain and regret and longing. It was a bitter toxin; her existence. Too weak to live; too weak to die.

“How can you stay away?” he demanded, breaking Sara from her bleary reverie.

Her eyes flew to his face. She saw the anger in it, the hurt, and she looked away. That’s what Sara did. She looked away from things that hurt, she pretended they didn’t exist, she avoided. It was agony going to that place, seeing what he was, knowing what he would never be again. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t her husband. Sometimes Sara could almost convince herself he was on a trip, a really long trip, and someday soon he’d return. Sometimes she almost believed it. But then the pain came back, the memories, the profound sense of loss, the emptiness and the guilt, and she couldn’t pretend any longer.

“Don’t you think you at least owe it to him to visit?”

Sara lurched back in her chair, her breath catching. Pain wracked her as she stared at Lincoln.

He pressed his lips together, his brows furrowing. “Shit. That’s not—I didn’t mean it like that.”

Sara couldn’t speak.

Lincoln rubbed his face, sighing. “That wasn’t what I meant, Sara. I only meant…he’s your husband. You should go there, be with him, see him.”

“It isn’t him,” she choked out, blinking away tears that continued to wet her eyelashes.

He shot to his feet, causing Sara’s stomach to flip, and stated, “Get your coat. We’re going for a drive.”

“No. I’m not going there, Lincoln. I’m not ready,” she said, shrinking away from him as he advanced on her.

He stopped by her chair. “Not ready? For what?”

She swallowed, avoiding his eyes. Not ready to accept what he is instead of what he was. Coward; that’s what Sara was. Not strong enough to see him; not strong enough to live. She hated herself, she truly did. When had she turned into this person she didn’t recognize?

It happened on a warm summer night when my heart was ripped apart and flung in a million unrecoverable directions.

“We’re not going there, but we’re going somewhere. You need to get out of here. I need to get out of here. And this is what we’re going to do; we’re not going to talk about anything that makes us sad. Deal?”

Lincoln offered a hand. It was large and long-fingered with callouses over callouses on it. It was a hand that swung a hammer on a daily basis. Sara hesitantly put her hand in his. His swallowed hers whole as he pulled her to her feet.

“Don’t you need to go back to work?”

He headed for the closet near the door. “I’m the boss. I don’t have to work if I don’t want to work. It’s pretty much the best thing about having my own company.” He flashed a grin as he pulled a purple jacket from the closet and tossed it at her. Reflexes slow, it hit Sara before she even raised her hands in preparation. Lincoln laughed a little. “I see your athletic abilities haven’t improved with time.”

The only thing she’d ever been able to do was run. Any sports where hand and eye coordination and teamwork were needed Sara was a liability more than anything. She almost smiled. Sara felt her lips muscles begin to lift and instead frowned.

Lincoln’s laughter broke off and he shook his head. He strode for the door, muttering, “It’s okay to smile, Sara.”

It wasn’t.

5

The air was cold and sharp. It went through her coat and jeans, layering her body with an uncomfortable chill she couldn’t shake. Sara shivered as she took in the gray-tinged day, knowing snow was in the forecast. It would come. That was the one thing that never changed: the world kept moving, even when a life stopped.

The smoky wood smell of a wood burning stove filled her nostrils as she followed Lincoln to his silver Dodge truck. The Walker boys had always loved their Dodges with the diesel engines. The street was quiet; most people were at work and their children were either in school or at daycare. Houses of different shapes and sizes lined the streets; most small, but nice. An occasional shabby house stood out among the more pleasant ones.

Boscobel, Wisconsin was a modest town with a population in the three thousands. It had a correctional institution on the outskirts of it and boasted to be the ‘turkey hunting capital of Wisconsin’. Everyone knew everyone’s business in Boscobel, which sometimes was a good thing, but usually wasn’t. People knew things about people the person in question didn’t even know about themself. Sara was pretty sure she didn’t want to know what was being said about her.

There was Subway, A&W, and Dairy Queen to pick from for fast food restaurants. Three gas stations strategically placed; one at one end of town, one in the middle, and the other on the other side of town, so no matter what direction you went; you were sure to find a reminder to fill up your tank.

The big hot spot of the town was the old movie theater open since 1935. It had been remodeled since then and played one movie at a time. It boasted inexpensive ticket and snack food prices and a large portion of the town frequented it on a regular basis. There was also the Civil War reenactment that took place every August, rain or shine. Cannons could be heard going off from the battlefield and people in 1800’s garb roamed the streets.

“Where are we going?” She hauled herself into the cab and put on her seatbelt. It smelled like spearmint in the truck and the interior was clean. Lincoln had always been particular about his belongings; taking care to keep his bedroom, truck, house, and everything else he owned clean and tidy. Opposites; he and his brother. Lincoln started it up and the truck vibrated as the diesel engine rumbled to life.

Riding with people didn’t bother her, driving her own car didn’t bother her, but Sara had yet to drive with a passenger in her car. The thought made her tremble and feel clammy. She didn’t care what happened to her, but she wouldn’t be responsible for another’s life. Never again.

He grabbed a battered black baseball cap from the dash and situated it low on his head so that his hair winged up around it. Lincoln put the vehicle in drive as he answered, “I’m not sure. Wherever the truck takes us.” He glanced over with a grin. Sara blinked at how it transformed his face.

When had his features gotten so sharp and masculine? She remembered him as a baby-faced young man of twenty-two who teased and badgered her the first time they’d met, and pretty much every day after that. She’d always thought of him as being younger than she, though he was actually a few months older. That was the image her mind brought up whenever she thought of Lincoln. Only it didn’t fit anymore. Sara saw that now. This was Lincoln; this leaner, more angular-featured man whose shoulders slumped a little more than they should, whose face showed strain and weariness from too much sorrow. She’d done that to him. Indirectly, but what did it matter?

Sara turned away, a fresh wave of remorse slamming into her. She was drowning from all the guilt she had inside her. Sinking, disappearing. She tightly clasped her cold hands together in her lap and stared out the window, not really seeing anything as the truck led them out of town and in the direction of Fennimore. The truck was quickly warming up, but it seemed to bypass her somehow. She couldn’t get warm.

Lincoln found a song on the radio and cranked the volume up. The bass was loud, the beat fast. It thrummed through Sara’s body, pulsating with musical life, demanding attention, demanding to be felt. She’d always loved music. Sara had loved to sing, loved to dance. She hadn’t done either since the accident. Each song had a story to tell, each song was a small, but significant tale. It had manipulated her art to be either ethereal or angry or simply bold. A good song had the power to change someone’s whole outlook in so many ways.

He began to sing along, completely off key and Sara knew that was on purpose. Out of the two brothers, Lincoln was the one gifted with a musical voice. When he chose to use it. Sara looked at him. Lincoln caught her eye and winked, bellowing out the next verse. He made his voice really high, so high it cracked, and Sara’s lips unconsciously curved. She bit her lip to stop the smile from completely forming, but when he changed the words to ridicule himself, a snort left her.

Sara clapped a hand over her mouth, widening her eyes. Lincoln took in her expression and laughed long and hard. For that moment, Sara forgot everything. For that moment, she was her old self. The person she’d been before the pain had overtaken everything and warped her into what she now was. She giggled; her eyes on Lincoln.

“Come on, Sara, help me out.” Another song started and Lincoln mutilated that one as well, doing a neck roll and upper body dance as he drove the truck up the hill to Fennimore.

She shook her head. “No way. I’m not adding to the horrible sound coming out of your mouth.”

“What was that song we sang at karaoke that one time?”

“The song you forced me to sing even though I didn’t know it?”

“Yeah. That one. You learned it soon enough. What was the name of it?”

“’Love Shack’.” Sara swallowed thickly. It was supposed to have been a double date, but Lincoln’s girlfriend dumped him right before it was time to go and as he had gotten stuck finishing up a company project it had ended up being Sara and Lincoln. In spite of all that, it had been a fun night.

“That would be it. We should do that again.” Lincoln pulled the truck into a gas station parking lot and put it in park. “Let’s get some bad coffee. You game?”

“You go. I’ll wait here.”

Lincoln hopped out of the truck and turned back to her. “If you don’t go inside with me, I’ll be forced to stand on the sidewalk and sing at the top of my lungs. Loudly. And badly. Promise.”

“Why does it matter if I go in or not, Lincoln?”

“It doesn’t. To me. But I think it matters to you. Let’s go, Sara.”

Sara glared at him. He was right. Every normal act she’d used to do without thought took great effort from her to accomplish these days, even getting out of a vehicle and going into a gas station to get a cup of lousy coffee. Even getting into the truck. Showering. Getting dressed. All of those things wore her out and some days she couldn’t even get them done. Even eating was a chore lately.

One of Lincoln’s eyebrows lifted as he intently gazed at her, his eyes never leaving her. With a sigh, Sara opened the door and slid down from the cab, huddling in her coat and tucking her chin under the collar of it to keep as much cold away from her skin as she could. It didn’t help much.

Lincoln met her on the sidewalk, smiling, bumping her shoulder with his arm as they walked inside. Sara knew she was being paranoid, but she felt like everyone was watching her, like everyone knew what she was responsible for and they all hated her because of it. He was the only one she didn’t imagine looking at her like that and Sara’s eyes continued to drift to Lincoln because of it. He was her rock. That scared her, knowing she’d come to rely on him so much, because she knew that would change in weeks to come.

It smelled like pizza and coffee and doughnuts in the convenience store; an odd mixture that was somehow enticing all tossed in together as it was. They stood side by side, looking at the different kinds of coffee. Sara and Lincoln looked at each at the same time and when he smiled, she felt her lips turn up in response.

“They all sound terrible.”

“They probably all are terrible,” she murmured, eyes back on the coffee selection.

“Here goes,” he said, reaching for a cup and pouring ‘Jamaican Me Crazy’ into it.

Sara watched his face as he sipped it. Lincoln’s face went perfectly blank, revealing nothing. “Good?”

“Mmm-hmm,” was all he said, lifting his cup in a salute. He methodically raised the cup to his lips and took another drink.

She fought laughter and lost, surprising herself and Lincoln. He went still, blinking at her. Sara turned away as the laughter abruptly cut off, flustered. She fumbled with the coffee cups, knocking a stack of them over and onto the floor. When she reached down to pick them up, Lincoln was there with her, taking them from her shaking hands, and then taking her hands in his. Sara stared at their joined hands, not able to move. His hands were rougher and larger and tanner than hers. The nails were short and blunt, but clean. They were strong hands, hands that worked.

“You don’t have to feel bad for living, Sarah,” he said slowly.

She snatched her hands back, grabbing the cups off the floor and standing. Without looking at the kind it was, Sara quickly poured coffee into a cup. “I’m ready.”

It was a silent drive back to Boscobel. After a few sips of the bitter, stale coffee, Sara gave up on it and set it in the cup holder. Lincoln did the same.

“It really was horrible.”

Sara looked at his profile and saw that he was grinning. “Yes. It really was,” she said.

Lincoln pulled the truck up to the curb by the small white ranch-style house, putting the vehicle in park. He twisted his body so that he faced her, the bill of his cap hiding his eyes in the gloomy light. “We’re going to change some things, Sara.”

She stiffened, but didn’t respond.

“We’re going to do things we don’t want to do, we’re going to socialize, we’re even going to hang out together weekly. I know, once a week just isn’t enough. Fine. We’ll try to make it a couple times. We’re going to laugh and smile. We’re going to live. Understand?

“This is what Cole would want. He would freak out if he saw the way you’re living now. You know it too. This is stopping. Now. You can get mad at me and you can try to push me away, but guess what? I’m not going anywhere.”

Sara’s eyes filled with wetness. There was a lump in her throat that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times she swallowed. He was so nice now, but soon, he would hate her. Maybe she should just tell him and get it over with.

“Lincoln…” she began.

“I’m removing your free will from this subject. You have no say in this, Sara,” he said firmly, resituating his hat so that his face was partially shadowed.

Sara sucked in a sharp breath as she watched him fiddle with his cap until he had it just right. Lincoln did it just like him. She’d never noticed that before. It made sense. They’d grown up together, only two years apart in age. Of course Lincoln would have some of the same mannerisms as his brother.

“Sara? What is it?” Lincoln leaned closer, a frown on his face.

“Nothing.” She turned away, grabbing the door handle, and jumped down from the truck. It had begun to snow and her shoes slid on the cement.

Lincoln met her at the front of the truck, reaching for her arm. Sara jerked back, not wanting him to touch her. “What’s going on, Sara?”

“Nothing,” she muttered again, hurrying toward the house and away from Lincoln. Only he followed.

He grabbed her arm and swung her around, his eyes like stormy gray clouds. “You need to talk. You need to tell me what’s going on right now. Or I’m not leaving.” Lincoln’s hand dropped from her arm, but his eyes never left her face. Those were stronger than his hands would ever be; they had the power to hold her in place with their intensity. “You know…every time that phone rings and no one talks and I know it’s you, I get this pressure in my chest. Every time I hang up that phone knowing you’re on the other end of it, that pressure builds until it just…aches, Sara. I worry about you. I worry about you a lot. Talk to me.”

She stared at his unrelenting face, tripping over her words. “You just—you remind me of him, okay? Sometimes you do or say something just the way he would have. And it hurts. Being around you hurts sometimes.” Snowflakes fell harder, blanketing them in a layer of cold whiteness and wetting Sara’s face along with the warm tears that never really went away. They were always there, below the surface, waiting to be unleashed in all their sorrow and anguish.

Lincoln stared at her. His lips pressed together and Sara looked down, wrapping her arms around herself. She was so cold. Always so cold. As though he’d heard her thoughts, Lincoln pulled her to him and cocooned her against his chest, his arms warm and strong around her.

Sara stiffened; her first impulse to move away. She knew it would do no good; she knew he wouldn’t let her go. Sara inhaled a ragged breath, lowering her head as his heat seeped into her, finally warming her. For once, she wasn’t so cold. But it felt wrong. It shouldn’t be him holding her. Sara stepped back and Lincoln let her go.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look at him. Sara kept her eyes lowered as she walked to the door, quietly opened it, and shut him out. She didn’t move away from the door until she heard the loud engine roar and the truck barrel down the street. Only then did she exhale. Only then was she able to get her legs to move.

***

“What are you thinking, Sara?”

She set the yellow fleece blanket on the dresser and turned. Lincoln stood in the doorway of the partially painted nursery, arms crossed, eyes directed at her. His hair was messy in a way only a hand repeatedly run through it could accomplish.

“Where’s Cole?”

“Outside. Where else? What are you thinking?” he repeated.

“Nothing. Why?”

Lincoln straightened. “Bull shit. You might be able to fool Cole because he’s too thick-headed to see the strain on your face, or he’s too deliriously happy to want to think you’re not the same, but I’m not like that. I see you, even when you don’t want anyone to. You’re pale. You’re not eating. Your eyes are red and you’re subdued. What gives? Are you not happy about the baby?”

Inhaling slowly, she said softly, “Of course I’m happy.” But her voice cracked and there was a tremble to it. “I’m pregnant. I’m supposed to be pale and not able to eat and whatever else you said.”

“Hormonal. That one I forgot.”

She gave him a look.

Lincoln flashed a quick grin before becoming serious again. “This is more than that.”

Sara didn’t answer. He was right.

With a sigh, Lincoln put his hands on her shoulders and lowered his head so they were at eyelevel. His hands were warm and he smelled like citrusy soap. It didn’t repel her, like most scents did lately. It was familiar, welcome, like Lincoln. “Talk to me.”

“I’m scared,” she admitted, blinking her eyes against tears.

“You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t. What are you scared about?”

“What if something happens? To me or the baby. I can’t say any of this to Cole. I can’t worry him.”

“He should be worried,” Lincoln said grimly “He’s your husband; he’s the father. He should be worried.”

She shook her head. “No. He’s so happy. I want him to be happy.”

“You want him to be happy while you’re miserable? That doesn’t sound fair. If anything, you should both be miserable together, worrying about things you have no control over, losing hair, losing sleep, looking…you look terrible, Sara. Where’s your glow?”

Scowling, Sara slapped his arm and moved away. “I haven’t found it yet.”

“Well, until you do, I’ll be miserable with you. How’s that? Cole can be blissfully unaware of reality and I’ll sympathize with you. You have a worry, a complaint, some disgusting tidbit to share; I’ll be here for you to dump your problems on. You can traumatize my brain and ears with all your pregnancy woes. I’m a man; I can take it. Deal?”

Sara looked at her brother-in-law, thinking she couldn’t have asked for a better one. But she had to ask, “Why?”

“I want you to be happy, Sara, and if you’re not happy, I can’t be,” he said simply.

***

It was Sunday. Sara had her portable bed put away and was showered and dressed long before the time Mason had threatened to reappear. She’d even made a pot of coffee, but she defiantly did not bake anything. Part of her wondered if he’d even show up, but in the pit of her stomach, where it churned and flipped all around, she knew he would.

The knock sounded at exactly nine in the morning, startling Sara from her bleak thoughts. She swallowed, opening the door to cold air, a snow-covered street, and Mason. His amber eyes flickered over her, approval in them. He rubbed snow from his dirty blond head, stepping inside and taking off his brown leather jacket to reveal a black sweater. He handed a small white bag to her, the delectable scent of cinnamon and sugar teasing her senses. Sara took it, looking at it and then at him.

“I figured the baking comment was probably pushing it.”

“You were right.”

Mason smiled and bent down to take his boots off.

“Where’s Spencer?”

He paused, glancing up. “Spencer isn’t part of the sessions, Sara.”

She moved to the kitchen, careful not to look at him. Her pulse picked up at those words and her chest squeezed. Spencer she knew. Spencer she trusted. This guy, he was an enigma; she wasn’t sure how to read or take him. Sara didn’t particularly like him either. She set the bag down.

“I didn’t ask for your help.”

“The ones that don’t ask are the ones that need it the most.”

“I don’t want it.”

“But you need it.”

“Philosopher on top of grief counselor. Multi-talented.” Sara poured two mugs of coffee.

“That’s me.” He took the mug she offered, blowing on it before taking a sip.

“Do you have any credentials? Anything to show me you’re not a hoax?”

One eyebrow lifted. “Spencer’s a cop. It’d be pretty dumb of me to masquerade as something I’m not when one of my good friends could have me checked out at any time.”

“You never said you were smart.”

He choked on his coffee, setting it down on the table and wiping a hand across his lips. Amusement, fleeting but intense, blazed over his features. “Tell me about yourself.”

Sara wrapped both hands around her cup, slowly raising it to her lips. It hovered there, brushing her lips as she said, “I’m twenty-seven, I’m an unemployed artist, and I’m responsible for my husband’s death.”

Mason acted like she’d never spoken; his facial expression blank. “What’s this room?” he asked, walking toward the room she’d used as her art studio.

“Don’t go in there,” she said, panic making her voice harsh. Sara thumped her coffee cup to the counter, hot dark brown liquid sloshing over the rim as she hurried for the door. Mason was already opening it when she reached him. “Mason! Don’t!” she gasped, her heart thundering and her breaths leaving her in short, panicky bursts.