“You coming or not?” inquired Maude sharply.
With great effort Victoria found her voice. “Yes, I—I’m coming.”
The room was small but pleasant enough, with chintz curtains, a polished oak floor with rag rugs and a patchwork quilt on the bed. The dresser mirror was dim with age, the wallpaper yellow and peeling in spots around the mahogany cornices.
“How long you planning to stay, Miss Carlin?” queried Maude.
“I don’t know,” Victoria replied distractedly. How could she carry on a rational conversation when her mind registered only one appalling thought—her son could be dead! Somehow, God help her, she had to convey a semblance of normalcy. “I—I’ll be staying just for the summer,” she said with forced brightness. “I teach up north at a state university. I’m working on my doctorate in contemporary American literature. I need a place with lots of peace and quiet to write my thesis.”
“This is the place,” said Maude. “I don’t like lots of people coming and going. My husband and I keep to ourselves. We don’t mind nobody else’s business and they don’t mind ours.”
“That sounds fair enough,” said Victoria. She inhaled sharply, gathering her courage. “I’ll take the room, Mrs. Hewlett.”
“All right. If your references check out, you can move in first of the week.”
When Victoria finally left the Hewlett home and climbed back into Phillip’s waiting automobile, she felt stunned, emotionally drained. She was trembling and her legs were unsteady. She had held back her feelings with such fierce resolve that now the dam of tears threatened to break. She collapsed into the seat beside Phillip and covered her face with her hands. The anguish tore from her throat in dry, racking sobs.
For an instant Phillip stared helplessly at her, then instinctively he gathered her into his arms. “Victoria, talk to me. Are you okay? What happened?”
She swallowed her sobs and pulled away from him. “I can’t talk yet. Just go. Drive. Get out of here “
Phillip started the car, merged with late-afternoon traffic and drove in silence for several miles, the pulse in his jaw throbbing with tension. Finally he pulled off at a rest stop and parked. “We’ve got to talk, Victoria,” he said, swiveling in the seat to face her. “You were gone so long, I was about to come in after you I never should have let you go in there alone.”
She found a tissue in her purse and blew her nose. “No, Phillip, I had to do it. I—I just didn’t know how hard it would be.”
He slapped his palm against the steering wheel. “I let you down. I’m sorry. I’ve seen enough in this business to know when things aren’t what they should be I was a jerk sending a woman in to do a man’s job.”
“No, Phillip, you did the right thing.”
He grimaced. “Do you feel like talking now? Can you tell me what you found out?”
Her tears started again. “Mrs. Hewlett—she told me—oh, Phillip, she said my son is dead!”
He slipped his arm around her shoulders and gently massaged the back of her neck “She came right out and said it?” he asked with a catch in his voice. “You mean, she knew you were Joshua’s mother? How could she—?”
“No, she didn’t know. But I saw a picture of Joshua, and Mrs. Hewlett noticed me looking at it. Out of the blue she came right out and told me about the accident. She said her grandson died in the crash.”
“To tell a complete stranger such a thing—that’s strange.”
“She seemed like a strange woman. But she was fairly blunt about everything,” Victoria told him “Phillip, is it possible your sources made a mistake? Do you suppose my son really is dead?”
“It’s possible, Victoria, but not likely. My gut feeling is that the Hewletts are hiding something “
“I have that feeling, too,” she said, finally regaining a measure of composure. “That’s why I took the room, Phillip.”
He stopped rubbing her neck. “You did what?”
“There was a room-for-rent sign on the door It seemed like the perfect excuse for my being there. Then when Mrs. Hewlett told me Joshua was dead, I knew I had to stay. I have to find out what happened to my son, Phillip.”
“That’s my job, Victoria.” His expression took on a stony grimness. “There are a lot of crazies in this world. I’m prepared to handle them. You’re not.”
“What are you saying, Phillip?”
“I’m saying I want you to telephone Mrs. Hewlett and tell her you’ve changed your mind about the room.”
“I can’t. I won’t.”
“You must,” Phillip said levelly. “I’ll continue the investigation. I’ll keep you apprised of every detail. But I can’t let you get personally involved like this.”
“I’m already involved,” she protested “I won’t give up the room. Don’t you understand, Phillip? The Hewletts are my only link with my son. I’ve got to find out what they’re hiding, no matter what it costs”
“It could cost you everything,” he warned, his tone edgy, almost accusing With a nervous energy he drummed his fingertips along her neck to her shoulder. Then he pulled her against him and pressed her head against his. Neither of them spoke for a long time. His breathing was ragged, perhaps hers was, too—she couldn’t tell. She could smell the spicy fragrance of his after-shave and the tangy, masculine aroma of his skin. His chin was already showing the faint stubble of a fiveo’clock shadow.
He was holding her almost too tight, but it wasn’t a romantic embrace; it was as if he wanted desperately to protect her but wasn’t sure he could. “I won’t risk losing you,” he said at last, his voice raw with feeling
She didn’t reply, didn’t ask what he meant by such a cryptic statement, but she understood now that a powerful connection was growing between them that went beyond their professional relationship. Perhaps even beyond friendship.
Monday, May 18, 2:00 p.m.
Believe it or not, I’m packed and ready for the drive to Middleton—ready outwardly, but inside I’m filled with doubts, terrified of facing Mrs. Hewlett again. I keep wondering what horrible secrets she’s keeping. And what if she guesses the truth about me? Could I make matters worse for Joshua by blundering into his life like this, by playing this bizarre charade?
I’ve always been such a cautious person, conscientious to a fault, never stepping outside my boundaries, never testing the limits, except once, of course, with Rick Lancer—and look at the trouble that got me into! But I can’t compare this situation with that one. I’m doing what I have to do to find my son. I must keep reminding myself of that. I can’t rest until I know what happened to him.
The thought that he might be dead haunts me. What kind of mother was I to let him go without knowing what kind of life he would have and what kind of people would raise him? How could I have trusted others so completely to do what was best for my son? And how could I have had so little faith in my own ability—and right—to care for him?
Not that I have great reserves of faith in myself even now. When my parents were alive my life was so simple and straightforward I tried relentlessly to be their obedient daughter, to make them proud of me; and even though I often failed, I was consumed with trying.
Now that I’m alone,