And yet, sometimes she was so very tired.
She had gradually turned the water temperature colder and colder, and now it rained down on her, nearly icy. With a sigh, Faith turned the shower off and stepped out shivering. She towel-dried, then brushed her hair and plaited it with practiced hands. She knew from experience it would still be damp come morning, and help keep her cool.
Momentarily, head tilted as she gazed at herself in the mirror, Faith wondered what she’d look like if she cut her hair boyishly short, like Char’s. She laughed at herself. Silly—she’d look exactly like Char! Except different, really. She had become aware these past two months that they might be identical twins, but they didn’t move alike or laugh alike or even make the same gestures. Passing as each other wouldn’t be easy, as it had been when they were mischievous children.
Rory wouldn’t like it if I cut my hair.
Faith went still, looking at herself in the steam-misted mirror. Her eyes had widened, the shade of blue deepening, as she did battle with the tight knot of fear that had ruled her for too long.
“I should cut it,” she whispered. “Because.”
No. She shouldn’t do anything at all because Rory liked it or didn’t. If she cut her hair in defiance of him, she would be giving him more weight than he deserved.
And she liked her hair long. She always had, resisting haircuts while Char had experimented with every length when they were teenagers.
Faith began to breathe again. She wouldn’t give Rory any power at all. She’d think about him only as a threat, the reason she would be target shooting tomorrow again.
She went back to her bedroom and found it considerably cooler after the cold shower and with her hair wet and the braid heavy down her back.
Dad had long since fallen asleep. She’d heard the rumble of his snoring as she’d crossed the hall from the bathroom. A farmer his entire life, he rarely stayed awake much past nine o’clock, but he no longer awakened with dawn, and he napped in the afternoons, too. She worried a little about how much he was sleeping, although the doctor insisted that was normal, part of the healing process. She still thought some of it might be depression.
Faith turned off her light and stood for a minute looking out her bedroom window at the cornfield. She could see the highway from here, too, and on the other side of it a glint of river between stands of trees. The moon was nearly full and low in the sky, a buttery yellow that looked mystical but was probably, unromantically, caused by smog in the atmosphere. A month from now, on All Hallow’s Eve, it would be a sullen orange, the harvest moon.
She left the curtains open and lay in bed, the covers pushed aside, enjoying the wash of air over her skin as the fan rotated. The faint hum was mesmerizing, a kind of white noise that soothed her. Faith fell asleep to the sound of it.
She never slept soundly anymore. Waking suddenly wasn’t unusual. Old houses made noises, and sometimes Daddy got up at night to go to the bathroom. Faith thought it was a creak that she’d heard. She always left her door open now, in case her father needed her. The rectangle was dark, inpenetrable. She lay staring toward it, holding herself very still as she listened intently for the thump of his crutches, or the quiet groan of the hundred-year-old house settling.
Nothing. For the longest time, there was no repetition. Her instinctive tension eased. She began to relax, let the weight of her eyelids sink. She was always so tired….
This creak was closer. On the stairs, or in the hall. Faith went rigid. There was another whisper of sound—something brushing the wall, perhaps.
Her pulse raced and her blood seemed to roar in her ears. Was it Rory? How had he gotten into the house without her hearing glass break? The front and back doors both had dead-bolt locks now.
One hand crept for the cell phone on her bedside table. Before she could touch it, her eyes made out the deeper shadow within the dark rectangle that was the doorway.
It was too late for the phone. Faith eased her hand back, then shoved it beneath the pillow beside her and found the hard, textured grip of the gun.
I’m not ready for this.
She heard breathing now. Her own, but someone else’s, too. He had stepped inside the bedroom, almost—but not quite—soundlessly. Not Daddy, no thump or scrape of crutches. The shape took form in moonlight. He was only a few steps from her bed.
Something snapped in Faith, and with a scream of terror and rage she lunged for the lamp switch even as she lifted the gun.
In the flood of light, he threw himself forward, his face contorted and a deadly knife lifted to stab.
Faith went cold. As if she were outside her body, she saw her second hand come up to brace the first, her thumb folding just as it ought to.
Rory was almost on top of her when she squeezed the trigger.
CHAPTER THREE
THE RING OF THE PHONE WOKE Ben with all the subtlety of a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. Cursing, he groped on his bedside table for the damn phone.
“Wheeler,” he growled into it.
“Chief, this is Ron Meagher.” One of his young officers, greener than baby peas fresh from the pod. “You said to let you know, day or night, if anything comes in about the Russells.”
“Yes.” He stifled an obscenity and swung his legs to the floor, then turned on the lamp, blinking painfully in the flood of light. “What’s happened?”
“We just had a call from Faith Russell. She says she shot her ex-husband.”
Damn it, damn it, damn it. Ben grabbed the jeans he’d left draped over a chair and yanked them on.
“Is he dead?”
“She seemed to think so. Dispatch said she sounded real cool.”
Cool? Faith? Maybe, but beneath the surface she would be dissolving.
“I’m on my way.” He dropped the phone and tugged yesterday’s T-shirt over his head. Not bothering with socks, he shoved his feet into athletic shoes. Weapon at the small of his back, he snatched his wallet and keys up, then was out the door at a run.
He drove faster than was legal, faster than was safe. The moon was high and silver now, an improvement over the sickly yellow it had been earlier, hanging on the horizon.
Don’t let the son of a bitch be dead, he prayed, with scant hope any prayer from him would be answered. He and God weren’t on cordial terms. He tried anyway. Faith can’t handle it. Shouldn’t have to handle it. Don’t let him be dead.
He didn’t pass a single car on the city streets or the highway. Long before he reached the farm, he saw the multicolored, rotating lights of police cars and ambulance.
He tore into the farmyard, heedless of potholes, and came to a skidding stop behind Faith’s SUV. The scene was nightmarishly similar to the other time he’d been called out here in the middle of the night, when Charlotte had been battered and slashed.
Please,
