things about her, about being with her. Somehow, he’d pictured a more expressive life-style. What he saw revealed little or nothing about her.
“Except that she lives like someone who is in transition. Between lives,” he said to himself after inspecting the entire apartment for would-be kidnappers.
Assured he was alone, he shut the door and took inventory. He picked up a ratty afghan off the floor and placed it on the arm of the slipcovered Chippendale sofa—the only decent piece of furniture in the room.
“Shannon, darlin’, you need a subscription to House Beautiful,” he sighed. “Or a life. Like I do.”
The chairs were old, cracked, and had been sanded down to bare wood. Cans of stain, varnish and glue were stacked in a corner ready to heal them.
It hurt Ben’s eyes to look from the drab olive hutch with the broken door to the psychedelic wallpapered kitchen with its intensely obvious refusal to indulge in even the smallest appliances. No microwave. No dishwasher. The absence of a dishwasher he could accept, but no electric can opener, no toaster? It was as if she’d deliberately set out to make her life miserable.
The thermostat was set at a bitingly cold sixty degrees. The bedroom was furnished with only a bed and a lamp on a cardboard box that stood in for a dresser. It contained the white utilitarian panty hose worn, no doubt, at the hospital.
There were no frilly things women kept in their lair to make them feel special. Even the clothes in her closet were uniforms or faded jeans and T-shirts. Cotton underwear and bras—no lace, no satin.
“No sex.” Ben stopped cold. “That’s what is missing.”
The Shannon he knew exuded sensuality with every step she took. Oh, she kept her eyes averted, her walk brisk, but when she breathed in and out, he sensed that she experienced the swell and contraction of her diaphragm, the press of her breasts against her uniform, the rush of air through her nostrils while tasting the hospital ethers on her tongue.
That kind of acute sensitivity was rare, but Ben knew it when he saw it, because he was like that.
Though he’d never been married, his apartment was furnished comfortably and adequately. His home was a haven for him. He’d expected Shannon to have the same philosophy. It saddened him that she didn’t.
His eyes scanned the meager shelves. No stereo. No radio. No music. “No songs to sing,” he whispered absentmindedly to himself.
Even the bathroom gave no clues to Shannon’s personality. The shampoo was cheap and unscented. A bar of generic soap. A plastic razor. A wide-toothed comb. A brush with most of the bristles broken off. No perfumes. No cosmetics anywhere.
“Doesn’t she ever go out? Or is the boyfriend next door a natural-look freak?”
He stopped abruptly, thinking back on his encounters with her. How she’d dodged the personal questions he posed. She never gave clues about her family, her past. He’d been so entranced with her that he’d assumed she was spurning him. Perhaps the answer was not that it was him in particular she avoided, but all people. All relationships. He already knew she was nursing a broken heart. But living like this?
“She’s hiding something. And it’s big.”
Entering the bathroom, he opened the medicine cabinet. Vitamins. Lots of them. Antihistamines. Ibuprofen. Cold remedies galore and several antibiotics.
“She must be prone to head colds,” he mused. “But sleeping pills?” Every over-the-counter brand could be accounted for as well as prescriptions for Seconal, Halcion and Valium. Interestingly enough, all of the prescriptions were long-outdated, as though she’d needed them most in the past.
“My God, Shannon, just what is your secret? Are you in hiding? Or hiding something? Someone?”
He scratched his head. “I must have lost my gift for reading people. That, or Shannon is a split personality.”
Going back to the bedroom, he spied a black leather Bible hidden half under the bed and half in sight. He lifted the dog-eared book. There were a half-dozen Catholic holy cards used to mark passages.
“Why do you feel guilty, Shannon? Who or what is riding your back?”
He couldn’t recall seeing Shannon in the hospital chapel. She’d never impressed him as being overly religious. In fact, now that he thought about it, she lacked many expected emotional responses.
Was that why he was attracted to her? Ben had always been fascinated with puzzles. The more difficult and tedious, the better. That’s why he’d decided to become a cop. Life had taught him, a bit later than most perhaps, that he was a born sleuth. An investigator.
He questioned his interest in Shannon. Was it that he found her fascinating or that she posed a mystery to unravel?
Maybe he wasn’t falling in love with her. Maybe he already was. Only time would tell.
He leaned down to put the Bible back and heard the distinct sound of a gun being cocked.
“Who the hell are you?” an angry man’s voice growled.
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