of some sort?
Though honestly, Sam didn’t look like he was enjoying the exercise in child-rearing enough to have used illegal means to experience it.
Sam Walker did not look like a kidnapper any more than he looked like a home invader. In fact, he looked the furthest thing from a man capable of any kind of subterfuge. There was something in his eyes, in the set of his mouth, in the way he carried himself—in the way he handled the child and dog—that made him seem like a man you could trust, even if you didn’t particularly like him.
Her grandmother had known him, she reminded herself. Had not just known him, but liked him enough to share an ongoing rental relationship with him for many years.
Still, Allie was aware that not only was she not sure what the type who became involved in a parental abduction would look like, but that she had an unfortunate history of placing her trust in people who had not earned it. While other people could trust their instincts, she had ample and quite recent proof that she could not.
Determined to not be naive, she put on her headphones to block out the noises coming from the bathroom and typed Sam Walker into the search engine on her tablet. Not too surprisingly, there were thousands of Sam Walkers. She changed tack and put in “recent abductions.” Also, sadly, way too many of them, though no photos of a curly-headed little boy who looked like Cody. No abducted children with dogs.
Giving up, Allie Googled the legal ramifications of rental contracts, only to find out lawyers were quite cagey about dispensing free information over the internet.
After that, she went through her grandmother’s documents, stored in a box under Allie’s bed, hoping for the rental contract, but found nothing.
Through the headphones, she heard the muffled sounds of the bath ending. She took them off and listened.
The bed in the room next to her creaked, a small creak, and then a larger one. Too easy to picture.
“Get off, Popsy, you stink. And you’re next for the bath. Don’t even think of hiding. Okay, where is Woozer, Wizzle, Wobble? Here it is.”
One bedtime story, read three times.
Again, that deep, sure voice, sliding over those silly words was all too endearing: “‘And then the witch said, woozer, wizzle, wobble and turned the toad into a donkey.’”
Ashamed to realize that she was acting like an eavesdropper and that the little scene playing out in the bedroom made her ache with that same weak longing the family on the beach had caused in her earlier, Allie put the headphones back on. She turned the music up.
She pointed her finger at her silent guitar. You are not my only source of music.
Then, she stretched out on her bed, and let the faint breeze play over her skin. Without any warning, the three nights of not sleeping suddenly caught up with her.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
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