Kitabı oku: «Whispers in the Night», sayfa 3

She’d actually slept well the night before. If there was a bear around, she’d told herself before turning in, then it would just have to share the mountain with her. As for the mysterious chicken bones, someone—a hiker, some kids—must have thrown them in the compost heap because they were too lazy to find a trash bin. Whatever. Here she was, the start of a new day, and she was beginning to get a sense of who she was, a sense of…

“Beware the bones of the dead.”

Kayla literally jumped up off her chair, one hand to her thudding heart, the other making sure the coffee mug was firmly on the table.

At the far end of the porch stood an old, slightly bent woman with long, straggly white hair, a once-beautiful face, and a look of manic intensity in her eyes. Like something out of a fairy tale, Kayla thought wildly. Not Disney, but Grimm.

Bailey, who had been sleeping at Kayla’s feet, rose, took in the newcomer and began to bark.

“Bodies and bones. They will rise and destroy everything,” the woman said, her voice amazingly resonant, her dark eyes boring into Kayla’s with mad fervor.

Even as the words sent a chill down her spine, Kayla couldn’t help making an absurd association: Was the woman talking about the chicken bones? The ones from yesterday? Were chicken bones going to rise up and give birth to—what? Baby chicken bones?

She stifled a nervous giggle, then ordered her one-eyed Yorkie, “Bailey, be quiet.” As usual, he continued barking until she picked him up, at which time his barking became a combination growl and whine.

Swallowing her fear and trying to keep her tone conversational, Kayla took a few tentative steps toward her visitor. The way the old woman’s spine was curved, she suffered either from scoliosis or advanced arthritis. “You must be Melinda.”

The so-called “wicked witch of the mountaintop,” a local character who lived in a shack deep in the woods, half crazed, it was said, but harmless. Walter had told Kayla about her, but in the previous visits she’d made up here with him, she’d never met the woman. At the moment, the word harmless wouldn’t have been Kayla’s first choice.

At the mention of her name, Melinda ceased talking and just stared at her, that same wildness in her eyes not diminished by her silence. Then she shifted her gaze to the dog. “Hush, now,” she ordered, and like that, Bailey did, whimpering for a brief moment, then burying his nose in Kayla’s neck.

Maybe she really was a witch, Kayla thought, thoroughly spooked. Still, she took another hesitant step toward her visitor. “Um, may I offer you something to drink, Melinda? Some water?”

As Kayla moved closer, the old woman’s eyes widened and she backed up until she was at the edge of the long porch. There were three steep steps from there to the ground, and sensing her visitor’s panic, Kayla became concerned that she might fall.

“I won’t hurt you,” she assured her, reaching a hand toward Melinda but remaining where she was. “Tell me about the bones, Melinda. I’m interested.”

The old woman paused briefly. “The bones,” she muttered, almost to herself, a faraway look in her eyes. Then her gaze focused again, horribly fierce and quite crazed. She pointed a crooked finger at Kayla. “Bodies and bones. They will destroy you.”

Chapter 3

With that, Melinda whirled around, missed the top step, and might have injured herself had she not fallen against an extremely tall man with an extremely broad chest.

“Whoa there,” Paul said, as a black-clad, elderly woman barreled into him, then slithered around him and scurried off, down the stairs and into the trees beyond. Paul watched her go, then turned to his employer, who stood several feet away, a shivering dog held tightly to her chest.

“Who the hell was that?” he asked her, setting his toolbox down on a side table, then divesting himself of his backpack. “And what was that about bones?”

“A local character named Melinda. She lives somewhere in the woods. And I have no idea what she was talking about.”

“She dangerous?”

“I sincerely hope not. From what I know she lives with an equally strange niece and the two of them manage to take care of each other.”

Paul glanced back at where the old woman had been headed, then returned his gaze to Kayla Thorne. “Weird.”

“Very.”

God, she looked good!

Again, no makeup. Hair swept back, gathered at her nape in a clip. Jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt—sporting a green palm tree against a white background—and sneakers. The opposite of anything considered remotely sexy or provocative, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to get naked with her.

Now and in last night’s X-rated dreams.

In which he had conjured up her body, her creamy skin, eyes the vibrant color of the sky up here in the mountains. The rounded breasts, the long legs—he’d woken up this morning desperately wanting them wrapped around him. Desperately wanting her.

Man, did he need a woman, and soon. Hell, wouldn’t anyone be horny after four years of going without?

Last Thursday, the night he’d been released, he’d stayed on in Susanville and headed for a singles’ bar, intent on finding a willing female and taking care of that need. He’d done the same thing the following night.

On both occasions, the women had been willing, but, for some strange reason, Paul had found an unexpected emptiness to all the conversations he’d struck up, the knowing, two-way, “how long do we have to make small talk before we wind up in the sack?” tone of them. It had seemed, somehow, wrong.

Not morally; he’d given up on moral right and wrong years ago. Just not the way he wanted it to be.

Probably, if he’d been ten, even five years younger, it wouldn’t have been a contest. Forget not feeling right, raging hormones would have dictated that he get laid, however he could. But he was nearly thirty-seven and was no longer ruled by his body’s needs. Especially after four years of practice.

“Coffee?” Mrs. Thorne asked him, snapping him out of his carnal reverie and back to the present. “I’ll get you some from the kitchen.”

She moved toward the sliding glass door, which, for some reason, set off the dog’s yammering. Paul winced at the sound; all day yesterday the mutt had alternately hidden from him and faced him, barking its stupid head off. He’d dealt with the little runt by ignoring it.

“Bailey, be quiet,” the woman scolded, setting the ball of hair on the porch floor.

“It’s okay.” Maybe it was time to make friends with the annoying thing. The Thorne woman would like that.

He approached the frantically yipping animal, now trying to back away but finding himself imprisoned by his owner’s feet. Paul squatted on his haunches, which made him eye level with the woman’s upper thighs, which he tried not to think about. Looking down, he held his fingers under Bailey’s nose.

“Hey, it really is okay,” he whispered. “I’m one of the good guys.”

His words must have had an effect, because the dog stopped barking and cocked his head, as though not quite sure what to do with this change of attitude. Then, tentatively, Bailey sniffed at Paul’s fingers. Dark button eyes peering out at him from under bushy, nearly white brows, the canine emitted a halfhearted growl.

Paul moved closer. “You’re a tough little man, aren’t you?” he said, stroking the animal’s head, then looking up to meet the woman’s amused gaze. From this angle, he could see the underside of her high, rounded breasts, a view that didn’t bother him in the least.

“Wouldn’t figure you the Yorkie type,” he observed.

One eyebrow arched upward. “Oh? What type would you figure me for?”

He shifted his attention to the dog; the thought of reaching up to cup one of her soft breasts in his hand was way too distracting.

He scratched behind his new best friend’s ears. “Well, now,” he managed to say with the part of his brain still functioning, “that’s kind of difficult. Before I saw you, I figured you for some kind of purebred, one of those show-dog types. You know.”

“A Yorkie is a purebred. And what do you mean, before you met me?”

Bailey made satisfied noises as Paul continued to scratch around his head. “I read about you in the papers, saw you on TV. The mysterious millionaire’s widow. Even in the pen, we got the news.”

“Oh.”

“Then, yesterday, when I saw the bunny slippers, well, that kind of changed things.” He glanced up at her again, watched her face flush slightly.

Her mouth twisted in a smile. “Not many have seen me wear those and lived to tell the tale.”

He nearly smiled back. “Well, then, I guess I’m lucky. Anyhow, someone who wears bunny slippers would go for something a lot more, well, fluffy. You know, a cocker spaniel. Like that.”

In mock indignation, she slapped her hands on her hips, unintentionally causing her T-shirt to mold itself more tightly to her upper body. “Wrong on all counts,” she announced. “I used to have a Lab. Well, not all Lab. A mix.” Her smile was tinged with sadness. “She was golden, a little bit of shepherd, a little bit of collie. When I was a kid.” A brief shadow of memory crossed her face before she brought herself back to the present. Mrs. Thorne nodded. “But you’re right. Bailey would not be my first choice. I inherited him.”

Paul raised an ironic eyebrow. “Someone left this to you?”

“Be careful. You might hurt his feelings. He belonged to Walter’s late wife. She doted on Bailey, spoiled him rotten. When I came to take care of her, he grew attached to me. He’s pretty old and he’s mostly deaf, not to mention blind in one eye.”

“Which is why he’s not much of a watchdog.”

“True. Poor Bailey can’t hear anyone coming unless they’re practically on top of him. But when a stranger comes into his limited view, by heavens, he gives it his all.”

Paul lowered his gaze again, moving his scratching to under the dog’s chin; Bailey raised it for easy access, a look of sensual pleasure on its face. Paul couldn’t help himself—he felt some kind of sympathy for the old thing. Aging, deaf, orphaned. Hell, what would it hurt to fuss some over the little guy?

Bailey began to moan, an oddly human sound. “He likes that,” the woman said.

“Yeah. Most living creatures like to be rubbed and stroked. It feels so good.”

He hadn’t really meant it like it came out. Well, not consciously, anyway. But when he shot a glance up at her, he saw from the awareness in her eyes that his remark had hit home. They locked gazes for a moment, hers surprised, even a little alarmed. And was it his imagination, or did he see the tips of her breasts harden to become two firm pearls?

In the next moment, she removed her hands from her hips, raising her arms to fuss with her hair and causing the T-shirt to lose its body-molding effect. Her attitude changed; now she seemed nervous, distracted, not at all pleased.

Oops, he thought. Busted.

No need to worry, he’d nearly said out loud. I won’t lay a hand on you…unless you want me to.

And he had about the proverbial snowball’s chance in hell of that happening. A real shame, because, damn, he wanted her! Not for the first time, he felt blood rushing through his veins to pool between his upper thighs, giving him an instant erection. He was grateful his crouching position kept that particular fact from her.

He patted the dog once more, saying casually, “I’ll take you up on that coffee, if you don’t mind.”

Only after she’d gone into the house did he stand.

With Fitzgerald trailing her into the kitchen, Kayla felt as though every nerve ending in her body was exposed. Only now did she admit to herself that she’d been looking forward to his arrival all morning, and that when he’d appeared on the porch, she’d been way too glad to see him.

What had happened to yesterday’s gut-level fear of him?

Not a factor today. Or not so far. Slowly, he was becoming an individual to her, no longer a symbol of masculine domination and brute strength. In fact, seeing him with Bailey, he’d seemed nearly human. And the bunny slippers remark—she’d almost caught him in a smile there. How would a full-throttle grin look?

She found herself wishing the fear response would come back; it had been a real barrier to that other response he aroused in her, the one that brought out all kinds of inappropriate female yearnings, the mental, emotional and physical kind.

“Any disturbances last night?” he asked from behind her.

“Not a one. Or else I slept through it.”

“Good. I’m going to work on your plumbing this morning, okay?” They’d reached the kitchen, but she didn’t really want to face him yet, so she didn’t. “That’s a priority in these old houses,” he continued, “keeping them dry and free from the elements. Hank’ll be up in a couple of hours with some supplies—wood, hardware, new tank innards.”

“That’s fine.”

Wow. Her handyman was actually stringing sentences together. Yesterday’s communication had been all clipped phrases, and curt, need-to-know answers to her questions. Hank had done most of the talking. The selling, really.

She wished the kitchen were larger; it was still way too small to hold him. He stood just behind her as she poured him coffee from the pot; again, she could feel the heat from his big body, could smell his lime after-shave, could hear the sound of his breathing.

And was she totally insane or was his breath caressing the back of her neck? The sensitive skin there felt all tingly. Again, she couldn’t fail to notice that this much closeness, rather than feel threatening today, made her body shift and sing in odd places.

That connection again. Oh, lord, she really did have a problem here.

“Black, right?” she asked him.

“Excuse me?”

“Your coffee.”

“Oh. Yes.”

After handing him his cup, Kayla sidestepped him, turned and leaned against the counter, keeping her gaze chest-level. He wore a clean work shirt of tan denim, its sleeves rolled up to reveal a light dusting of dark hair on his muscular fore-arms…and on the left one, a fierce-looking tattoo of a hawk and a knife intertwined.

Startled, she tried not to stare, but he caught her reaction.

“I got it when I was inside,” he told her matter-of-factly. “It was purely defensive, trust me. If I hadn’t joined one or another of the gangs, well—” he shrugged “—let’s just say I didn’t have much of a choice if I wanted to stay alive.”

“Oh.”

She shuddered inwardly at what she could only imagine the conditions must have been like for him in prison.

Don’t ask him about it, she begged herself silently. Keep your distance. Look at the tattoo, remember where he’s been. It was safer to keep an arm’s length and more between herself and potential violence, which included the men who worship it.

Sipping her coffee, she darted a quick glance at his face. His hair was so very short, so close to his head, making the bones and contours of his face seem sharply defined. It wasn’t that he was particularly handsome, only that he was so very masculine. Had he always worn his hair like this? Or was it growing out from being shaved in jail?

Another sip, eyes lowered, then another glance at him, at his face this time.

To find him staring straight at her, a look of half-lidded intensity on his face that made her breath stop. His nostrils flared, his mouth was tight with some kind of tension.

Oh, lord, Kayla thought weakly, save me.

Unable to avert her gaze, she couldn’t help noticing that he was looking at her as though she were the highly coveted grand prize in some major contest, one he was hell-bent on winning.

The heat rose to her cheeks, her insides quivered and became liquid. It was true, then. Not only was she sexually drawn to Paul Fitzgerald—despite her efforts not to be—but the feeling was definitely mutual. It was hard to miss it.

The moment was short-lived, so fleeting it might have not even happened, because in the next instant, the animal intensity of his expression was gone, wiped off his face. His gaze hardened; his mouth once again became a thin, smileless line.

He turned toward the door leading to the rest of the house. “I’ll take the coffee with me upstairs,” he said, his voice gruff as he added, “Thanks.”

For several moments after he left the kitchen, Kayla stood where she was, waiting for her breathing to return to something approximating normal.

She spent the rest of the morning doing chores and—as she had done the previous day—avoiding her new handyman. However, by lunchtime, when she was in the kitchen and he was working upstairs, she decided to stop being silly. To act like a grown-up for a change. Standing in the doorway, she called up the stairs, “Can I make you a sandwich?”

“No, thanks,” he called down from the upstairs bath. “I brought my own today.”

“Well, I’m going to sit out on the porch and have my lunch. It’s a beautiful day. Care to join me?”

It seemed to take him quite a while before he answered. “In a few minutes, sure.”

Humming to herself, Kayla brought out a tray with her sandwich and two tall glasses of freshly brewed iced tea. Seated, she was just sipping her drink when she heard the glass door slide open and close again behind her. She smiled at Paul as he lowered himself onto the matching Adirondack chair, the table between them. True enough, he had a brown paper sack with him, and when he set the contents out on the plate she’d provided, she laughed.

“Peanut butter and jelly,” she noted, holding up her own pb and j sandwich. “Great minds…”

Anyone else might have offered an answering smile, a wink, something. Not him. Instead, he grunted and took a large bite of his sandwich.

The return of the cutoff noncommunicator, Kayla observed silently. Aloud, she said, “I appreciate the work you’re doing.”

He chewed and swallowed before answering. “I’m getting paid, Mrs. Thorne.”

“Kayla, please. And I’ll call you Paul, if that’s okay.”

He hesitated before nodding. “Fine.”

“Now, back to the compliment I was paying you. I admire people who take care with whatever they do. Pride in your work is a lost art.”

In the midst of another bite, Paul stopped chewing. Her words created a small glow inside. It had been such a long time since anyone had seemed to appreciate anything he did, and hell, he was human after all.

Still, he’d decided to have lunch with Kayla Thorne for an entirely different reason. To ask her about her brother. He should have done it yesterday, but he’d gotten the feeing she wasn’t real comfortable with him yet. Today, there seemed to be a definite improvement in her mood.

Do it, he lectured himself silently. Use the time to get the information you need.

And forget about wanting her. The woman had good sense—she wasn’t about to get mixed up with an ex-con, and he wasn’t about to screw up his reasons for being here with any sexual nonsense.

But how to start? So, he could say, tell me about yourself—any sisters or brothers? Right. Like they were on a blind date or had just met at a bar. Okay, start casually, lead into it. Gazing around him, Paul said, “This place is really something.”

“Yes, I’m lucky it’s in the family. Although, given the choice, I’d rather Walter were still alive.”

It was such a sad little comment, and it took him by surprise. He studied her face, open, honest and completely devoid of makeup or artifice of any kind. “So…you loved him.”

She seemed taken aback. “Of course I did.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get personal. It’s just—” he shrugged “—you’re so different from what the papers made you out to be.” After it was out, he wondered if it had been a wise thing to say.

But she didn’t seem to mind. Lifting one shoulder in an answering shrug, she said, “They make it up. I’m a creation of the media. They’re getting back at me for refusing interviews and insisting on my privacy. I wanted to mourn my husband’s death. They couldn’t understand why someone wouldn’t welcome their fifteen minutes of fame.”

“Yeah. Being damned in the press can really play havoc with your life, big-time.”

“Is that what happened to you? I don’t remember the details. Were you tried in public, too?”

“Believe it. It started out with one of those ‘anonymous sources’ you read about. He called a reporter with the scoop on me, how I was a dirty cop.”

Talking about it dredged up that familiar sense of outrage. He took a sip of his tea to calm himself and to watch Kayla’s face for any hint of recognition. Nope. Nothing there but polite interest.

“An investigation was opened,” he continued, “and then there was a trial. It was pretty carefully orchestrated. I never had a chance. The guy, the ‘anonymous source,’ he started the whole thing.”

She shook her head. “I hate when people hide behind anonymity—it keeps them from having to be responsible for their actions.”

“He didn’t stay hidden, trust me. He testified at the trial.” He was talking about her brother; again, Paul watched her closely, but she showed no signs of having heard any of this before. “It was all a lie.”

“But now you’re out. You’ve served your time.”

“I could still go back. See, this chief witness against me was a paid informant, working for the district attorney, and the defense wasn’t informed of that. His testimony was pretty damaging. Had my lawyer known about him, he could have impeached his credibility.”

“So, they had no choice but to release you.”

“Pending a new trial. They’ll let you out if it’s a first offense and not a crime against person or persons.” He was telling her more than she needed to know, but there was something about Kayla Thorne that made talking to her easy.

She nodded. “I see. Well, good luck.”

He gave a mirthless grunt. “I’ll need more than good luck. But we’re working on it. I want to clear my name,” he added with more vehemence than he’d intended.

“Well, of course you do.” Compassion flowed out of her. “It must have been so hard on your family, you being in jail.”

“My family?”

“Your wife, children. If you have either.”

It was one of those questions that women usually asked to find out if a guy was married before she got involved with him. However, in her case, he figured, she wasn’t on a fishing expedition; she was just being courteous.

“No kids,” he told her. “And my wife divorced me while I was in jail.”

“Oh.”

“My family stood up for me, though. My dad and brothers are responsible for me having this second chance—they’re helping to pay for the lawyer. If for no other reason, I need to prove my innocence, for them. To pay them back.”

“How are you going to do that?”

By finding out where your son-of-a-bitch brother is, he wanted to say. Jay Vinovich, aka Jay Goodall, the anonymous source and main witness. When Paul found him, he would pay, in spades.

“I’m working on a few leads,” he said, then plunged ahead with the topic that, after all, she had raised. “I can’t say enough about my family. They really came through for me. How about yours? During this whole thing, this bad rap in the press, did your family stand by you?”

If she’d been a window, at that moment the shutters would have snapped closed. “I don’t speak to my family much,” she said. “Not at all, actually.” She turned away from him, gazing instead at the vista before them.

“Oh, sorry. No mom and dad?” He made himself push it. He had no choice. “No brothers or sisters riding to your rescue?”

“My mother is gone, and I’ve lost touch with all the rest of them.”

“All the rest?”

“I’m the only girl of five children.”

He already knew that, but he whistled and said, “Big family.”

“Too big.” Her smile was inward, and bitter.

“And you don’t see any of them?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame,” he said with a sinking heart.

A damned shame, in fact. In more ways than one.

As though, after the flurry of dialogue, they’d each agreed to a time out, conversation stopped. Paul went back to his lunch, barely tasting his sandwich, and wished he knew what to ask next. What he’d learned so far from Kayla Thorne was exactly zip, and he tried to fight the growing sense of despair in his gut. Maybe she was exaggerating the estrangement; maybe she’d lost touch, but you could always find out where your family was, couldn’t you? If you really needed to…?

But he’d prodded about as much as he could at this time. Besides, he’d never been good at fishing expeditions. He figured if a person wanted to talk about a difficult subject, then they would. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t. He personally hated to have his privacy breached, but that was what he was trying to do to her right now.

For extremely important reasons, he reminded himself. The difference between a second chance at life and the possibility of going back to hell for several more years.

The sun felt good on Kayla’s back as, later in the afternoon, she pulled weeds from the garden on the far side of the house. Rich autumn smells filled her nostrils, from a neighbor burning leaves to the wild onions that grew at the edge of the porch. She listened to the sound of sawing and nail-pounding from upstairs, birds twittering in the trees all around. It was like surround sound for nature. She sighed. It had been a long time since she’d felt such contentment, such a sense of peace….

“Kayla!”

The harsh sound of her name made her jerk her head up. No, she thought, standing, wiping her hands on her jeans, pushing her hair off her face, no doubt leaving traces of dirt on her cheeks as she did so. She’d been so absorbed in her role as the happy gardener, she hadn’t heard his car drive up.

“Steven,” she said, turning to face the newcomer, who stood a few yards away, and wishing she were clean and nicely dressed. Walter’s son always made her feel as though she’d thumbed a ride on a cabbage truck and didn’t know enough to clean up afterward.

She said nothing other than his name, not “It’s good to see you” or “How nice of you to stop by,” because neither were the truth, for either Steven or her.

She’d tried, in her years with Walter, to let his older son know that she had no intention of trying to replace his mother, that she had no interest in Walter’s money, and that she truly cared about his father. But Steven, stiff-necked and given to deep grudges, had never bought it. So to keep the peace, Kayla had learned to be civil to him. But it wasn’t easy.

He was dressed today as he always was, in an exquisitely tailored designer suit and tie. His cuff links were gold, his loafers soft Italian leather. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly styled, his face showed nary a whisker on its clean surface. Nothing was out of place, which was how he wanted his entire life to be. Twice married and twice divorced, Steven hated messiness and loose ends.

Which was how he viewed his father’s widow.

He stared at her and she stared back. She considered not opening the conversation, but she’d been placating him from the day they’d met, and old habits died hard. “I didn’t expect you,” she said with composure. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, shall I make us some coffee?”

“No, I don’t want coffee.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her.

“Then just what is it you do want, Steven?”

He wanted his father back. She knew that, and wondered if he did. Kayla was enough of a student of human nature to know that first his mother’s death, then his father’s, had shaken Steven to the core, and in his pain he’d lashed out at the nearest target: Kayla. She’d withstood many of his verbal assaults; some she’d answered, at other times, she’d just walked out of the room, leaving him frustrated and probably even angrier.

“My lawyer tells me you haven’t responded to our suit yet,” he said.

“My lawyer tells me he’s taking care of it.”

“I thought, maybe, we could speed things up.”

“Oh, did you?” She, too, crossed her arms over her chest. “And how exactly did you think we might do that?”

“I’ve hired a new firm of private detectives,” he said with an air of gotcha! “They’re researching your entire life, top to bottom, beginning with your birth, through the day you were hired to take care of my mother and on to when you supposedly walked in on my dead father. There are a lot of gaps in your story. This time, they’re going to find the truth.”

She’d heard these threats before. When Walter had told his sons, Steven and Joe, that he was marrying Kayla, Steven had had her investigated. What showed up was all there was to know—she’d led a life that had its share of pain, limited success, some tragedy, some joy. There were things that she’d thought were her right to keep private, but not according to Steven. Still, insofar as proving her a gold digger, the most innocent of the accusations, or a murderer, the least, they’d come up with exactly nothing. Because there was nothing to come up with.

The deaths of both Sonny and Walter Thorne had been completely natural. Sonny had had terminal cancer; Walter had an embolism that burst loose and caused instant death. Kayla had played no part at all in either.

But Steven couldn’t hear that. Wouldn’t.

“Are you through?” she asked him.

“These people mean business, Kayla. They’re going to find out every black moment in your life, everything you’re ashamed of and want kept hidden. Why did you run away from home at sixteen? How did you support yourself as a runaway?”

“Steven—” she said warningly.

“How many lovers did you have before you met my father? I know you killed him, and I won’t let you profit from it.”

She held up a warning hand. “Stop it. Just stop it. Go away.”

Instead, he began to walk toward her, the look in his eyes threatening. For the first time in her dealings with Walter’s son, she wondered if she was at physical risk.