The Hollow (27 page)

When she left, he stayed, and he wondered how much she would be willing to do to save the people they both loved.

NO TRACE OF SNOW REMAINED WHEN FOX LEFT his office in the morning. The sun beamed out of a rich blue sky that seemed to laugh at the mere idea of winter. On the trees the leaves of summer were in tight buds of anticipation. Pansies rioted in the tub in front of the flower shop.

He peeled off his coat—really had to start listening to the weather—and strolled as others did along the wide bricked sidewalks. He smelled spring, the freshness of it, felt it in the balm of the air on his face. It was too nice a day to huddle inside an office. It was a day for the park, or porch sitting.

He should take Layla to the park, hold her hand and stroll over the bridge, talk her into letting him push her on one of the swings. Push her high, hear her laugh.

He should buy her flowers. Something simple and springlike. The idea had him backtracking, checking traffic, then dashing across the street. Daffodils, he thought as he pulled open the door of the shop.

“Hi, Fox.” Amy sent him a cheery wave as she came in from the back. She'd run the Flower Pot for years, and to Fox's mind never tired of flowers. “Terrific day, huh?”

“And then some. That's what I'm after.” He gestured to the daffodils, bright as butter in the glass refrigerated display.

“Pretty as a picture.” She turned, and in the glass, the dim reflection of her face grinned back at his with sharply pointed teeth in a face that ran with blood. Even as he took a step back, she turned around, smiling her familiar and pretty smile. “Who doesn't love daffodils?” she said cheerfully as she wrapped them. “Are they for your girl?”

“Yeah.” I'm jumpy, he realized. Just jumpy. Too much in my head. As he got out his wallet to pay, he caught a scent under the sweet fragrance of blooms. A swampy odor, as if some of the flowers had rotted in water.

“Here you go! She's going to love them.”

“Thanks, Amy.” He paid, took the flowers.

“See you later. Tell Carly I said hi.”

He stopped dead, spun around. “What? What did you say?”

“I said tell Layla I said hi.” Her eyes shone with puzzled concern. “Are you all right, Fox?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He pushed through the door, grateful to be back outside.

As traffic was light, he walked across the street in the middle of the block. The light changed as a cloud rolled over the sun, and he felt a prickle of cold against his skin— the breath of winter out of a springtime sky. His hand tightened on the stems of the flowers as he whirled around, expected to see it, in whatever form it chose to take. But there was nothing, no boy, no dog, no man or dark shadow.

Then he heard her call his name. This time the cold washed over him, into him, through his bones, at the fear in her voice. She called out again as he ran, as he followed her terror to the old library. He rushed through the open door that slammed like death behind him.

Where there should have been empty space, some tables, folding chairs for what was now the community center, the room was as it had been years before. Books in stacks, the scent of them, the desks, the carts.

He ordered himself to steady. It wasn't real. It was making him see what was not. But she screamed, and Fox ran for the steps, taking them two and three at a time. He ran on legs that trembled, that remembered running this way before. Up the stairs, up past the attic, to heave himself against the door leading out to the roof. When his body hurtled through, the early spring day had died into a hot summer night.

Sweat ran down his skin like water, and fear twisted tearing claws in his belly.

She stood on the ledge of the turret above his head. Even in the dark he could see the blood on her hands, on the stone that had torn at them when she climbed.

Carly. Her name pounded in his head. Carly, don't. Don't move. I'm coming up to get you.

But it was Layla who looked down at him. Layla's tears spilling onto pale cheeks. It was Layla who said his name once, desperately. Layla who looked into his eyes and said, “Help me. Please help me.”

And Layla who dived off the ledge to die on the street below.

Fourteen

HE WOKE IN A COLD SWEAT WITH LAYLA SAYING his name over and over. The urgency in her voice, the solid grip of her hands on his shoulders pulled him out of the dream and back to the now.

But the terror came with him, riding on the raw and wrenching grief. He locked himself around her, the shape of her, the scent, the rapid beat of her heart. Alive. He hadn't been too late, not for her. She was alive. She was here.

“Just hold on.” A shudder ripped through him, an echo of that stupefying fear. “Just hold on.”

“I am. I will. You had a nightmare.” While she murmured to him, her hands soothed at the knotted muscles of his back. “You're awake now. It's all right.”

Was it? he wondered. Would it ever be?

“You're so cold. Fox, you're so cold. Let me get the blanket. I'm right here, just let me get the blanket. You're shaking.”

She pulled back, yanked up the blanket, then positioned herself so she could rub the warmth back into his arms. In the dim light, her eyes never left his face. “Better? Is that better? I'm going to get you some water.”

“Yeah, okay. Yeah, thanks.”

She scrambled out of bed, darted out of the room. And Fox put his head in his hands. He needed a minute to pull himself together, to push the rest away. The dream had him twisted up, mixing his memories, tying in his fears, his loss.

He'd been too late on that ugly summer night, too busy being the hero. He'd screwed it up, and Carly died. He should have kept her safe. He should've made sure of it, should have protected her, above all else. She'd been his, and he hadn't helped her.

Layla hurried back, knelt on the bed as she pressed the water into his hand. “Are you warm enough now? Do you want another blanket?”

“No. No, I'm good. Sorry about that.”

“You were like ice, and you were calling out.” Gently, she brushed the hair back from his face. “I couldn't wake you up, not at first. What was it, Fox? What did you dream?”

“I don't—” He started to tell her he didn't remember, but the lie stuck bitterly in the back of his throat. He'd lied to Carly, and Carly was dead. “I can't talk about it.” That wasn't quite the truth either. “I don't want to talk about it now.”

He felt her hesitation, her
need
to press. And ignored it. Saying nothing, she took the empty glass from him, set it on the nightstand. Then she drew him back, cradling his head on her breast. “It's all right now.” Her murmur was as soft as the hand that stroked his hair. “It's all right. Sleep awhile longer.”

And her comfort chased his demons away so he could.

IN THE MORNING, SHE EASED OUT OF BED LIKE A thief out of a second-story window. He looked exhausted, she thought, and still very pale. All she could hope was some of the sorrow she'd felt from him in the night had softened with sleep. She could find its source; he couldn't block her now. If she knew the root, she might help him dig it out, help heal whatever hurt his heart.

And while that was true enough, it was only part of what tempted her. The rest was selfish, even petty. He'd called out her name in the grip of the nightmare, called in terror and despair. But not only hers, Layla remembered. He'd called out another's.

Carly.

No, looking into his mind and heart while he slept, whether the motive was selfless or selfish, was a violation. The worst kind. A breach of trust and intimacy.

She'd let him sleep, and if she had to breach something, she'd breach his kitchen and find something reasonably sane to fix him for breakfast.

She slipped on his discarded shirt and out of the room.

In the kitchen, she got a quick jolt. Not from piles of dirty dishes and scattered newspaper. The room was what she thought of as man-clean. A few dishes in the sink, some unopened mail on the table, counters hastily wiped around countertop appliances.

The jolt came from the addition of a shiny new countertop coffeemaker.

Everything in her went soft toward the point of gooey. He never drank coffee, but he'd gone out and bought a coffeemaker for her—one that had a fresh bean grinder. And when she opened the cupboard overhead, she found the bag of beans.

Could he
be
sweeter?

She was holding the brown bag, smiling at the appliance when Fox walked in. “You bought a coffeemaker.”

“Yeah. I figured you ought to be able to get your morning fix.”

When she turned, his head was already in the fridge. “Thank you. And just for that I'm going to cook you breakfast. You must have something in here I can morph into actual food.”

She came around the refrigerator door to poke her own head in. When he straightened, stepped back, she saw his face.

“Oh, Fox.” Instinctively she lifted a hand to his cheek. “You don't look well. You should go back to bed. You've got a light schedule today anyway. I can cancel—”

“I'm fine. We don't get sick, remember?”

Not in body, she thought, but heart and mind were different matters. “You get tired. You're tired now, and you need a day off.”

“What I need is a shower. Look, I appreciate the breakfast offer, but I don't have much of an appetite this morning. Go ahead and make your coffee, if you can figure that thing out.”

Whose voice was that? Layla asked herself as he walked away. That cool and distant voice? With careful movements, she put the beans away, quietly closed the cupboard door. Walking back to the bedroom, she began to dress while the sound of the water striking tile in the bathroom drummed in her ears.

A woman knew when a man wanted her gone, and a woman with any pride obliged him. She'd shower at home, dress for the workday at home, have her coffee at home. The man wanted space, she'd damn well give him space.

When the phone rang, she ignored it. Then, cursing, gave in. It could be important, she thought, an emergency. Then she winced when Fox's mother gave her a cheery good morning and addressed her by name.

In the shower, Fox let the hot water pound over him while he gulped down his cold caffeine. The combination dulled some of the sharp edges, but there were plenty more where they came from. He felt hungover, headachy, queasy. It would pass. It always passed. But a nightmare could give him a rougher morning-after than any drunken spree.

He'd probably chased Layla off, snapping at her that way. Which, he admitted, had been the purpose. He didn't want her hovering, stroking, and soothing, watching him with that worry in her eyes. He wanted to be alone so he could wallow and brood.

As was his damn right.

He turned off the shower, whipped a towel around his waist. When he walked into the bedroom, trailing drips, there she was.

“I was just leaving,” she began in the frosty tone that told him he'd done his job very well. “But your mother called.”

“Oh. Okay, I'll get back to her.”

“Actually, I'm to tell you that since Sage and Paula have to be in D.C. on Monday, and may have to head back to Seattle from there, she's having everyone over for dinner tomorrow.”

He pressed his fingers to his eyes. Probably no way out of that one. “Okay.”

“She expects me to come. Me—all of us. I'm supposed to help you spread the word. You probably know she's impossible to say no to, but you can make excuses for me tomorrow.”

“Why would I do that? Why wouldn't you go? Why should you get out of eating stuffed artichokes?” Since she didn't smile, he shoved at his dripping hair. “Look, I'm feeling a little rugged this morning. Maybe you could cut me a very narrow break.”

“Believe me, I already have. I'm trying to cut it even wider by convincing myself you're being moody and secretive because you're an ass, not because you don't trust me. But it's tricky because while you may be an ass, you're not a big enough one to hold back the details of a major trauma like the one you went through last night just to be stupid. So I circle right back to the matter of trust. I let you inside me, I took you inside me in that bed, but you won't let me inside you. You won't tell me what hurt and scared you.”

“You need to back off, Layla. This just isn't the time.”

“You get to choose the time? Well, that's fine. Just let me know when it's convenient for you, and I'll pencil me in.”

She started out, and he did nothing to stop her. Then she stopped, looked dead into his eyes. “Who's Carly?”

When he said nothing, when his eyes went blank, she walked away and left him alone.

HE DIDN'T EXPECT HER TO COME INTO THE OFfice, actively hoped she wouldn't. But while he was in his law library trying to concentrate on research, he heard her come in. There was no mistaking it for anyone else. Fox knew the way she moved, even her morning routine.

Open the door of the foyer closet, hang up coat, close the door. Cross to the desk, open the bottom right-hand drawer, stow purse. Boot up the computer.

He heard all the busy little sounds. They made him feel guilty, and the guilt annoyed him. They'd ignore each other for a few hours, he decided. Until she calmed down and he settled down.

Then, they'd just move past it.

Ignoring and avoidance worked well enough for most of the morning. Every time the phone rang, he braced for her voice to come snipping over the intercom. But she never buzzed him.

He told himself he didn't sneak from the library to his office. He simply walked very, very quietly.

When he heard her go out to lunch, he strolled out to reception, took a casual scan of her desk. He noted the short stack of while-you-were-outs for him. So she wasn't passing the calls through, he mused. No problem, that worked. He'd do the callbacks later, he decided. Because if he took the messages into his office, it would become obvious he'd been out there poking around her desk.