always chose color—in her clothes, her adornments, her walls, because color brought her joy.
In the bathroom she noticed a used bar of soap in the shower. Along with identical bottles of everything she’d seen in the other, smaller bathroom off the hall. Even the new towels were there. Minus any visible tags.
And the toilet paper roll, as in the other room, was full, as though it hadn’t had a single sheet torn off from it.
But that soap...
“Is this someone’s room?” she asked.
“Not currently, why?”
“The soap in the shower.”
He blinked, looked a tad put out and retrieved the bar. “That shouldn’t have been left there,” he said, sounding apologetic.
Or annoyed. She couldn’t tell which. Unlike Ken, Sam Larson kept his emotions well in check.
He’d said she could have either bedroom.
“You’re sure I’m not putting somebody out of a home?”
“Positive.”
There’d been new towels in both bathrooms. As though both were expected to be used.
“I’m not staying here alone am I?” For a brief second her heart rate sped up.
She didn’t want Detective Larson to stay with her. He hadn’t offered, either. But for a second there...
“No, you’re not,” he said, as though brooking no argument.
The place was remote. And while she prided herself on being self-sufficient, the place was...remote. And yet...she didn’t want to stay alone with him.
Transference was a powerful tool the mind used to emulate the sense of safety and security that was on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Right behind physiological. She was noticing him. Noting odd sensations. She couldn’t afford a personal setback. Most particularly not with Ken soon to be back in her picture, however briefly.
“Who’s going to be staying here with me?”
“Detective Chantel Harris,” he said. “She’s giving us some time to get you settled and then she’ll be along. I’ll introduce you before I go.”
She could pretend she wasn’t disappointed. Though she’d like to think that for her own good she’d have refused to stay there alone with him. But her inner voice wouldn’t let her get away with lying to herself, so she went ahead and dealt with the feeling of dismay right then and there. He was her safety net. What she was feeling was normal. She nodded.
She thought about Ken being free and needed him back behind bars. Those bars that held him had given her her life back. Had taught her about freedom. Given her the first real taste of it she’d ever known.
“So what is this, someone’s summer home?” she asked, following Sam back out into the great room. She could see dishes stacked on shelves that a cupboard door had once covered. “If it is, they’ll be needing it soon.”
It was July. Summer visitors were already there in full force. Ever since Memorial Day the beaches—and bed-and-breakfasts that lined the streets around them—had been filled.
“This house is yours for as long as you need it,” he stated, clearly undaunted.
“I’m not going to need it long,” she pushed back.
He studied her. Put his hands in his pockets. And said nothing.
Bloom understood the tactic. And didn’t like the response.
At all.
* * *
AS SOON AS Sam heard Chantel’s car coming up the drive, he started to breathe easier. His associate had promised him that she wouldn’t say anything to Bloom about the cottage being his house. He knew she’d refuse to stay.
And there was no place else safe enough, that he could afford, that was also close to her work. He’d yet to receive financial approval from the department for his plan, but with Freelander’s imminent release, he hadn’t been able to wait for it.
Lucky for him he heard the old Mustang just as Bloom was letting him know that she wouldn’t be in his house long. All he had to do was hold his tongue for thirty seconds or so and be home free.
He told himself that he’d cut out a minute after introductions because Lucy was alone in a one-room...room, and would need to be let out. And added that Chantel and Bloom were better off getting to know each other on their own.
He was happy with both points. Sam’s conscience had learned long ago to leave well enough alone.
He spent the evening with Lucy, walking on the beach. Because Bloom was his responsibility, he chose the stretch directly below his cottage. He’d had to drive through the gate, but had left his vehicle there and then hiked to the side path that led down to the beach. Lucy loved bounding through the trees almost as much as she liked running in the sand, spraying it up behind her. He was glad to see lights flickering through the trees.
Glad, too, to verify that he couldn’t see enough of the window to make out anything, or anyone, inside.
He talked to Chantel just before bed. And again the next morning when she showed up for work after tailing Bloom to her office.
Freelander wasn’t out of prison yet, but word was that he’d specifically stated that he was going to have the pleasure of watching his wife find out that he was in charge as he taught her about proper respect.
Sam and Chantel were setting their routine for the days to come—when Freelander would be out. Taking it through a dry run. They’d put in a request for a guard to be placed with Bloom throughout the day. For round-the-clock protection.
“So far so good,” the unadorned blonde said as, in brown tweed pants, a white shirt and a matching jacket that only partially blocked her holster and gun from view, she slouched down in the chair beside his desk. They weren’t partners. Didn’t even work in the same area. But High Risk Team aside, he’d heard incredible things about her.
She was tough. She didn’t give up.
And she’d risk her life to help someone she believed deserved help. The job aside.
“How’d last night go?” The eagerness with which he awaited her response left him feeling slightly voyeuristic.
“Good. Fine. She worked. I watched TV.”
“What do you think?”
“I like her. She’s nice.”
“I meant about our chances of keeping her safe until we can figure out a way to get the guy to make the mistake that will send him back to jail.”
Chantel’s pause gave him indigestion.
“You get the idea she’s not going to cooperate for long?” He put the concern right out there. He had her in the house. She was
