Copper Lake Confidential - By Marilyn Pappano Page 0,82
down the hall when she was done. She set the alarm and followed him, nearly falling over him when he stopped in the living room doorway. “Scooter, you should—”
Her admonition faded as she followed his gaze. Light came from the room where it shouldn’t, not electric but wavering, flickering flames. Tapers. Two of them. In candlesticks that could be traced back to Paul Revere. One on each side of the mantel, placed to cast the best illumination on the wedding portrait that hung above.
“Oh, God...”
With a low rumble, Scooter moved closer to her, nudging her trembling hand with his head. She tried to pat him, tried to say or do something, but all she could manage was staring at the scene.
Someone had brought those candlesticks from the dining room to the mantel.
Someone had lit the flames.
Someone had been in the house.
Someone...who wasn’t her. She was sure of it.
“Clary!” She raced up the stairs to her room, flung back the covers and gathered her daughter into her arms. Thank God, her daughter was safe...but someone had been in the house!
“Okay, okay. We can go to the guesthouse. Better yet, we’ll check into a hotel. I can call Jared at The Magnolia. He’ll make room for us even if they’re full.” She paced to the closet, shifting Clary, mumbling now, to one arm and hip while yanking clothes from the rods. “I’ll call Jared from the car...call Brent and tell him... Stephen.”
Scooter appeared in the doorway and barked once, then headed back out of the room.
Stephen. He was only a quarter mile away. He would welcome them. He would understand. He wouldn’t think she was crazy. He would hold her, comfort her, keep her and Clary safe.
Scooter came back to bark once more before trotting off again. Telling her to come on, quit wasting time, get out of this house.
She looked at the clothes she’d grabbed, two and a half outfits for herself, none for Clary, then dropped them on the bed. They could come back here and change in the morning, when it was daylight, when it was safe. She needed only two things besides her daughter and Scooter. She took her phone from the nightstand, grabbed her medication from the bathroom drawer and headed toward the stairs as Scooter barked a third time.
At the front door, she risked a look into the living room. The candles were still lit, their flames sending ghostly shapes across the canvas. “Gotta get out,” she whispered, arms clenching Clary more tightly, but halfway out the door she remembered Brent. If he found them gone and the clothes tumbled on the bed, he’d panic.
Rushing to the kitchen, she scribbled a note and left it in a prominent place on the island, then rushed back to the door. She was all the way out when she thought about the candles. She couldn’t leave them burning. They were a fire hazard. She didn’t care about losing the house, but she couldn’t endanger Brent and Anne or her neighbors.
She ran into the living room, blew out the flames, breathed in the acrid smoke that curled up from the wicks, then ran out again. Scooter, waiting patiently on the steps, barked, and she closed the door, locked it and hustled for the van. For such a short drive, she set Clary in the passenger seat, shushing her when she murmured and shifted. Scooter jumped into the front floorboard and rested his chin on Clary’s leg. She sighed, patted his head and went on sleeping.
Once Macy drove through the Woodhaven gate, streetlamps were fewer and much farther between. Her fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly they almost went numb, and her gaze kept shifting: street ahead, daughter beside her, road behind her. She braked to a jerky stop in front of the neat little cottage, yanked out her keys, ran around to the passenger side and lifted out Clary, then followed Scooter to the porch.
Her first knock qualified as polite. Ludicrous. She’d fled her house with her little girl in the middle of the night and acted as if she were making a routine visit. Scooter thought it silly, too, because he nosed the screen door open, banged the door with one paw and let out a great deep bark. She imitated his knock, curling her fingers into a fist and banging on the door, then called, “Stephen! It’s me and Clary! Open the door, please!”
Lights came on in the bedroom, thin wedges spilling around the edges of the