A House by the Side of the Road Read Free Page B

think or what you say. I’ve got a good reputation in this town. What’ve you got? Six months’ worth of speeding tickets. So, go on, talk. Talk to anybody.”
    He spoke quietly. His eyes, watching her, were cool. But he saw everything he had worked for crumbling. How much did she know?
    â€œOh, I will. If you make me,” she replied. “I don’t want you to make me. I want us to go on happily together. Forever.” She hitched herself up onto the edge of the counter and crossed her feet, took another sip from her glass. “You and she have been involved in something interesting. Everyone in town will find it fascinating; I know I did.”
    She put one heel up on the countertop and hooked her arm around her leg. She reached out her other foot, pointed her toes, and rubbed them against his thigh.
    He realized with horror that she was flirting with him. “I don’t know what you think you know,” he said coldly, moving beyond her reach. “But if you’re planning to spread something you hope will damage my reputation, no one will believe you.” He lifted the bottle by its neck and tipped it to pour more bourbon into his glass.
    She looked surprised. “Did you think I was just planning to gossip? Oh, no, darling! I’ve got proof! Right here.”
    It frightened him, and fear made him angry. “There is no proof, you dumb bitch,” he said.
    She threw her glass. The movement was so unexpected that the tumbler struck him directly in the chest before hitting the floor and rolling away. It was a heavy glass, and Angie was a strong young woman. The intensity of the pain shocked him. He took two steps forward and swung his right arm. She started to raise her hand, to turn away, to scream, but the bottle he was still holding caught her on the side of her head. She crumpled onto the countertop and lay motionless, then started a slow slide to the floor.
    The bottle dropped from his fingers and rolled heavily away. He staggered toward the sink, overwhelmed with nausea. When his stomach stopped heaving, he knelt beside the woman. There was a widening pool of blood under her head. He pushed her silky hair aside and put two fingers against her neck. Her pulse was faint and irregular.
    He stood, swaying, and looked at her. Her skull was fractured, that was evident. He went into the living room and lifted the receiver of the phone, which responded with a dial tone. She hadn’t canceled the phone service; he could call for help. No one would be able to recognize his voice if he whispered.
    No. He replaced the receiver. If she survived, he might be able to make her understand that the whole thing was a horrible accident. But if she died, there would be an investigation. A careful investigation. Before he called anyone, he had to wipe away any prints he’d left—on the bottle, his glass, the faucet. That wouldn’t be enough. He had touched things in her room, in the bathroom, the handle of the door …
    It was while he was scrubbing frantically at the bourbon bottle that he remembered what she’d said. She had proof. She couldn’t. What proof could there be? Photographs would prove nothing. A diary or notes would be awkward, but not proof. What could she have meant?
    Damn his rage! That hadn’t been him, that violent man. He wasn’t an animal. He was a calm, reasonable person and intelligent enough to stay out of trouble. If she had been telling the truth—she couldn’t have been telling the truth—but, if she had been telling the truth, she had something. What? Maybe she’d sent it on to Boston. No, probably not, or why would she have said, “Right here.” In the house?
    What proof? There couldn’t be. But if there was, it meant he couldn’t risk having the house unavailable to him. It could not be sealed off with yellow tape, could not be searched by anyone but him.
    He went through the rooms methodically,