standardized testing for about an hour.
Finally, unable to stifle her yawns any more, she lay on the couch and closed her eyes. At least in the daylight, she could fall asleep.
* * *
Rebecca woke up about five hours later, just before noon, feeling barely refreshed but glad that she no longer had those five hours to sit around worrying. She tried to call Gary, but again there was no answer. She considered leaving another message and decided against it. She didn't want Scott and Doug to make fun of him.
For a moment she thought about calling the police, but immediately rejected that idea. They'd laugh at her. Gary had said that he might not be able to get through, and he wasn't even due home until this evening, so there was absolutely, positively no need to worry unless he didn't come home tonight. Which he would. They'd kiss and laugh and have really good sex and she'd never even give him a hint of how scared she'd been alone in the house.
* * *
By nine o'clock, he still hadn't come home.
He hadn't called, and he hadn't answered his cell phone.
So, he was running late. It wasn't like you could plan out a camping trip with split second precision. His cell phone wasn't working, and he was hurrying back to the car right now, while Scott and Doug asked him to please slow down because their backpacks were too heavy.
Nothing to get worried about. He hadn't given her a specific time that he was going to be home; just that he'd be home in the evening.
But it wasn't evening anymore. It was night.
Were they lost?
What if, God forbid, they'd let Doug lead the way? They could be at Mount Denali!
She squeezed her eyes shut. Stop it. Nobody likes a crazy paranoid lady. He'd probably be home by the time she finished ironing her clothes for tomorrow.
Rebecca ironed her clothes very slowly, but he still didn't show up. Maybe they'd had car troubles. Maybe they were hitchhiking along the side of the road right now.
What kind of person would pick them up?
There was a knock at the door.
For several seconds she stood there, frozen. Then she snapped out of it and walked across the living room, feeling a bit sick to her stomach. She looked through the peephole in the door and saw a man, blond hair, maybe in his mid-thirties, standing on the porch. He wore jeans and a brown jacket.
"Who is it?" she asked.
As if aware that she was looking at him, the man reached into his jacket pocket and took out a badge. He held it up to the peephole. "State Troopers, ma'am."
The sick-to-her-stomach feeling turned into full-fledged nausea. "May I ask what this is about?" she inquired, trying to keep her voice formal and steady.
"Is this Mrs. Harpster?"
"Yes."
"Please open the door. It's about your husband."
CHAPTER THREE
"What happened to him?" she asked. In the time it took her to ask that question, a dozen ghastly scenarios flashed rapid-fire through her mind.
"Ma'am, this is not something we should discuss through a closed door."
She reached for the chain lock, and then hesitated. "May I have your name and badge number, please?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your name and badge number. I won't be able to read it through the peephole."
"My name is Phillip Marsh. My badge number is 0133."
"Thank you. I need to verify something really quick, and I'll be right back."
"Ma'am, this is extremely urgent. Your husband may not have much time left."
Rebecca felt like she was going to vomit. She never let anybody, not even a uniformed State Trooper, much less a plainclothes cop, into her home without knowing exactly who it was, but if Gary was badly hurt...
She reached for the first lock.
Yet this State Trooper looked wrong , for some reason. Even with his image distorted through the peephole there was something almost predatory about him.
Knock it off, you're just being paranoid, for God's sake! Gary could be dying!
She unlocked the first bolt.
Did she see a hint of a smile?
Instead of unfastening the second lock,
Finally, unable to stifle her yawns any more, she lay on the couch and closed her eyes. At least in the daylight, she could fall asleep.
* * *
Rebecca woke up about five hours later, just before noon, feeling barely refreshed but glad that she no longer had those five hours to sit around worrying. She tried to call Gary, but again there was no answer. She considered leaving another message and decided against it. She didn't want Scott and Doug to make fun of him.
For a moment she thought about calling the police, but immediately rejected that idea. They'd laugh at her. Gary had said that he might not be able to get through, and he wasn't even due home until this evening, so there was absolutely, positively no need to worry unless he didn't come home tonight. Which he would. They'd kiss and laugh and have really good sex and she'd never even give him a hint of how scared she'd been alone in the house.
* * *
By nine o'clock, he still hadn't come home.
He hadn't called, and he hadn't answered his cell phone.
So, he was running late. It wasn't like you could plan out a camping trip with split second precision. His cell phone wasn't working, and he was hurrying back to the car right now, while Scott and Doug asked him to please slow down because their backpacks were too heavy.
Nothing to get worried about. He hadn't given her a specific time that he was going to be home; just that he'd be home in the evening.
But it wasn't evening anymore. It was night.
Were they lost?
What if, God forbid, they'd let Doug lead the way? They could be at Mount Denali!
She squeezed her eyes shut. Stop it. Nobody likes a crazy paranoid lady. He'd probably be home by the time she finished ironing her clothes for tomorrow.
Rebecca ironed her clothes very slowly, but he still didn't show up. Maybe they'd had car troubles. Maybe they were hitchhiking along the side of the road right now.
What kind of person would pick them up?
There was a knock at the door.
For several seconds she stood there, frozen. Then she snapped out of it and walked across the living room, feeling a bit sick to her stomach. She looked through the peephole in the door and saw a man, blond hair, maybe in his mid-thirties, standing on the porch. He wore jeans and a brown jacket.
"Who is it?" she asked.
As if aware that she was looking at him, the man reached into his jacket pocket and took out a badge. He held it up to the peephole. "State Troopers, ma'am."
The sick-to-her-stomach feeling turned into full-fledged nausea. "May I ask what this is about?" she inquired, trying to keep her voice formal and steady.
"Is this Mrs. Harpster?"
"Yes."
"Please open the door. It's about your husband."
CHAPTER THREE
"What happened to him?" she asked. In the time it took her to ask that question, a dozen ghastly scenarios flashed rapid-fire through her mind.
"Ma'am, this is not something we should discuss through a closed door."
She reached for the chain lock, and then hesitated. "May I have your name and badge number, please?"
"Excuse me?"
"Your name and badge number. I won't be able to read it through the peephole."
"My name is Phillip Marsh. My badge number is 0133."
"Thank you. I need to verify something really quick, and I'll be right back."
"Ma'am, this is extremely urgent. Your husband may not have much time left."
Rebecca felt like she was going to vomit. She never let anybody, not even a uniformed State Trooper, much less a plainclothes cop, into her home without knowing exactly who it was, but if Gary was badly hurt...
She reached for the first lock.
Yet this State Trooper looked wrong , for some reason. Even with his image distorted through the peephole there was something almost predatory about him.
Knock it off, you're just being paranoid, for God's sake! Gary could be dying!
She unlocked the first bolt.
Did she see a hint of a smile?
Instead of unfastening the second lock,
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