Summer Session (25 page)

The kiss was softer than she’d imagined. Like mousse. Or meringue. She lingered, making it last, wanting to sink into it.

‘I’ll be right beside you.’ His voice was gravelly. Not like the kiss.

Was he hoping to have sex? Another kiss. His tongue flicked across her lips. Harper’s chest throbbed, and her body awoke, remembering it was female. Parts she’d tried to forget about began to demand attention. It had been too long. And remembering that too-long-ago time, she thought of Hank. Her Hank. Her lying, cheating, vow-breaking, deceitful Hank.

Ron whispered. His breath tickled her face. ‘What’s wrong?’

Not for the first time, he responded to her feelings before she’d said a word.

‘Is it about your husband? Because, if it is, I understand. But –’ he caressed her face with a finger – ‘your husband isn’t here now.’ His lips brushed her forehead. ‘And you shouldn’t have to be alone.’ Her cheek. ‘And you’ve been through a lot.’ Her neck. ‘And you’re so damned adorable.’ And settled on her mouth.

This is wrong, Harper thought. Even so, she returned Ron’s kisses. His smell was intriguing and new, like his taste. And his touch. But being touched kept reminding her of Hank and his familiar, much more substantial, more solid body. Which she pictured humping Vicki. And she silently cursed him, telling herself that Hank, with all his secrets and deceits, had no right to expect his wife to be faithful.

‘Want to move this inside?’ Ron whispered.

Inside? Oh. To her bedroom? Hank’s bedroom? Their bed? Harper hesitated, pulled away. Oh God.

‘Harper?’

‘This isn’t . . . I can’t do this, at least not here.’ She held herself rigid.

‘Someplace else then?’

When she didn’t respond, Ron took a deep breath. ‘Are you sure?’

No, Harper wasn’t, but she nodded, yes. She pictured ripping his clothes off, wondered what his chest would look like. Was it rippled? Skinny? Freckled? Sprinkled with soft hairs?

Ron leaned against the window, an arm on the steering wheel, instantly composed. ‘OK.’ Harper thought she heard a trace of annoyance in his voice. ‘Let’s just go check the place out.’

They got out of the car, Harper wondering why he’d given up so easily. He could have suggested going to his house. Or a motel. But he hadn’t; he’d just given up. Which left her and her body feeling rejected. Maybe, she thought, Ron felt rejected, too. After all, she’d been the one who’d called the halt, and she hadn’t done it gently. She thought of his kiss, its tenderness, the way he’d anticipated her thoughts. Oh God, what was she doing?

Together, they walked to the porch where the puddle of blood had long since congealed and dried. Harper didn’t look at it. Instead, she stood tall, bracing herself to face the mess inside, and realized that she really should – no, really had to – deal with the house alone. This wasn’t just her home; it was also Hank’s. Just as Ron didn’t belong in their bed, he didn’t belong inside their cabinets or dresser drawers. She shouldn’t have let him come over. Her lips still pulsed from the pressure of his, and she could smell him on her skin. Dammit, why had he just given up? Why hadn’t he asked her to his place? Why had the panting and petting stopped and everything fallen apart?

Ron stood in the foyer, looking around. In the dining room, drop cloths lay in bunches, the contents of the hutch scattered on top. The living room furniture was upside down, cushions thrown every which way.

‘Cool house.’

Was he serious? ‘It is. We think so, anyhow.’

‘You’re renovating.’

‘We were.’ Harper didn’t want to talk about that. ‘Anyhow, I can manage from here. Thanks for . . . you know.’

Ron’s stared at the mess. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. At least let me pick up the heavy stuff—’

‘No. I can manage. Really.’

He didn’t move. Didn’t seem to know what to say.

‘I kind of need to do this alone.’

‘But you shouldn’t. Be alone, I mean.’

‘I’ll be fine. The police keep driving by.’

Ron moved close, kissed her again briefly. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’

Harper nodded, ready for him to go. Wanting him to stay. She watched through the dining-room window as he walked to his car. Even if Hank had cheated on her, she was better than that. She was angry, but she wasn’t going to have sex with Ron just to get revenge. She wasn’t.

Bracing herself, Harper walked into the living room, turned over a chair. Replaced a cushion. Bent over for another when, suddenly, she dropped it, turned and ran to the door, hoping she wasn’t too late to catch Ron.

Grabbing her bag, she flew out the front door, calling to Ron, catching him before he drove off, reminding him that her Ninja was still parked at the bakery. They laughed foolishly, and Harper got back in the car.

For several miles, they were silent.

‘I hope you don’t—’

‘Look, I don’t want to—’

They both began at once. And stopped at once. And laughed again, uncomfortably.

‘Go on. What were you going to say?’

‘No, nothing. You go ahead.’

Ron drove. ‘I like you, Harper. That’s all.’

‘I like you, too. Really.’

Ron smiled. ‘Good.’

Harper wasn’t sure. ‘Is it?’

‘Yes. It is.’

Silence. Only, this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable; something had been understood.

After a while, Ron sighed.

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Well, not nothing. Fact is, I don’t want to go back to work. Wyatt’s been a pain. He’s obsessed about the drugs, putting pressure on me because he doesn’t know what to do.’ Ron stopped at a red light, turned to look at her. ‘The problem’s serious, but he’s so freaking uptight. He’s making it worse.’

‘Dr Wyatt has always seemed . . . strung tight.’

Ron nodded, smirking. ‘He’s a genius; geniuses tend to be quirky.’ He watched the road. ‘Wyatt thinks you’re involved in all this, Harper.’

Harper tensed. ‘What? Why?’

‘Think about it. You knew the murdered kids, the suicide, even the waitress.’

Detective Rivers had said the same thing.

‘So far, you’re the common thread. Plus, you’ve been mugged, your house has been tossed. It’s obvious Wyatt’s not the only one who thinks you’re connected.’

‘But how, Ron? How could I be connected? Does he think I masterminded the theft? I never even knew those pills existed—’

‘No, no. He thinks you’re an unwitting participant. That you fell into it by accident. That you must have something, maybe something you don’t know you have. Or you know something you don’t consider significant.’ Ron stopped at a red light, turned to face her.

‘But I’ve already told you—’ Harper stopped mid-sentence, remembering that she hadn’t told him about the paper. She’d met him for coffee to tell him, but they’d gotten sidetracked by their flirtation. ‘Could it be that piece of paper? With the numbers?’

‘Let me take a look at it.’

Harper swallowed. ‘But it wasn’t anything – just scrap paper with numbers—’

‘Wasn’t?’

She winced.

‘What?’ Ron waited. ‘You lost it?’ The light turned green. A car behind them honked. Ron drove, eyes still on Harper.

‘It was in my bag – now it’s not.’

‘You’re sure?’

She nodded. ‘I dumped everything out. Twice.’

Ron paused, thinking. ‘OK. Can you remember what was on the paper?’

‘Just numbers.’

‘What numbers?’

‘I don’t know. There were a lot – at least a dozen.’ She shut her eyes, picturing them. ‘The first was one.’

‘Phone numbers start with one. Was it a phone number?’

‘Maybe. I thought it might be a student ID number, but there were too many digits.’

‘OK. IDs have eight digits, so we know there were more than eight. And we know the first one. That’s a start.’

The air conditioning blew cold air into in Harper’s face, made her eyes burn. ‘Who else knew about the numbers?’

She thought. Remembered. ‘Larry.’

‘Larry? As in dead Larry?’

Harper nodded. ‘He came to my office, looking for it. He said the paper was a study guide. A list of page numbers.’

‘Well, obviously, that was bull. Did you tell him you had it?’ Ron turned a corner too fast. A vein stuck out in his forehead.

‘Not exactly. I told him that all Graham’s belongings would go to the police, and if he wanted anything – even a piece of paper – he’d have to talk to them—’

‘Which sounds like an admission that you had it.’ Ron’s eyes narrowed; he ran a red light. ‘Damn, Harper. Why didn’t you give it to me right away?’ His tone was harsh, accusatory.

Harper bristled. Did he think she’d lost the page deliberately? ‘Hold on a sec, Ron. Who knows if the numbers even relate to your stolen drugs? Maybe the paper’s a cheat sheet for a quiz or a list of lucky lottery numbers. I don’t know. But as soon as I thought of it, I contacted you.’

Ron took a breath, looked ahead at the road. ‘You’re right; you did. I’m sorry.’ The words sounded forced.

Harper waited a few beats. In anger, Ron’s eyes had become snake-like. ‘Apology accepted.’ Kind of.

Ron reached for her hand; he no longer resembled a reptile. ‘Don’t lie. You’re mad at me, rightfully so. I was wrong to snap. Fact is, I’m annoyed at myself, not you. Because lives are in danger, and time is critical.’

Harper understood that time was critical. Lives were in danger. She’d messed up, and, once again, people were dying.

‘So.’ He started over. Calmly. ‘About the numbers. When did you last have them?’

Harper stared at the dashboard, remembering. ‘When I found Monique’s body. It was in my bag when I grabbed my phone to call nine–one–one.’ But what had she done with it? Ron was right; she should have given him the paper right away. If she had, he might have found the drugs. Monique and Larry might still be alive. She looked out the window; Marvin stood in the street, a car speeding toward him, trailing a cloud of dust.

Harper knew better than to react as it passed. Without a wince or even a cough, she endured the dry exhaust fumes, the rush of sandy wind and the acrid smell of explosives. She didn’t blink as an unattached hand whizzed by, or cry out as she left the ground and flew, or cringe as she anticipated the merciless slam of her body against the rusted-out car.

Harper didn’t resist, didn’t let on what was happening, didn’t even try to find her lemon. She simply shook her head again and said, ‘I’m sorry.’

Ron didn’t notice her flashback. He was pulling over, parking and putting on a CD, something monotonous and calming, and, calmly, he asked monotonous questions, trying to help Harper recall what was on the paper, what she’d done with it.

‘Relax,’ he told her. His voice was soft, but she sensed tension underneath. ‘Close your eyes, Harper. Breathe deeply. Let air in and push it out slowly. Picture yourself back at the moment when you first found the paper. Let the memories surface.’

‘What are you trying to do, hypnotize me?’

‘If I have to.’

Was he serious? ‘Don’t bother. I can’t be hypnotized. It won’t work on me.’

‘Fine, don’t be hypnotized. Just relax and try to remember.’

Harper thought of her rapid eye movement therapy, wondered if it would help. She tried looking back and forth on her own. Left right. Left right.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Trying to remember stuff I haven’t processed.’

Ron chuckled. ‘You know about that? You’re trying EMDR?’ He rolled his eyes.

‘What?’ Harper stopped moving her eyes. ‘What’s funny?’

‘Nothing. Sorry. I just think it’s crap. Particularly when it’s self-administered.’

Harper’s face reddened. EMDR was crap? Really? Why would he say that? Never mind. She stopped moving her eyes and leaned back, simply trying to remember. Ron talked to her softly, coaxing her to let the tension out of her shoulders, back, legs.

Harper straightened up, shook her head. ‘Sorry. I just can’t remember.’

‘That’s OK. You did your best.’ Ron grinned and started the car.

He seemed in a hurry. Harper looked at the dashboard clock; twenty minutes had passed since they’d pulled off the road. What? It seemed like only a couple. Five at most. How had she lost track of time?

‘Ron? How long were we sitting there—’

His grin was smug. ‘You know, you weren’t entirely right. About not being able to be hypnotized.’

What? ‘You hypnotized me?’ Harper was astounded. She sat up, ran her hands through her hair. Appalled. Could somebody hypnotize her without her knowing it? Without her permission?

‘Would I do that?’ Feigned innocence. A smarmy smile.

Obviously, he would. But how? She knew how to resist suggestion.

‘You must have wanted to be hypnotized, or it wouldn’t have happened.’

Harper frowned, uncertain. ‘Well? Did you learn anything?’

‘You remembered a few details.’ He stopped at a light. ‘Some more numbers.’

‘Seriously?’ She had no recollection. ‘Did you write them down? Let’s go over them—’

‘You’ve been through enough for now, Harper. Just relax. Breathe.’

Oddly, she did. His voice relaxed her. His tone. She didn’t need to worry about the numbers; she could trust Ron. He’d tell her whatever she needed to know. When they pulled into the bakery parking lot, Harper picked up her bag and opened the door. Ron leaned over and kissed her. And a surprising sense of calm and optimism washed over her.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you.’

Riding home, Harper felt refreshed, light. Almost weightless. But she was perplexed: how had Ron been able to hypnotize her? And when? She’d been trying to remember details about the scrap of paper, to envision the digits. And then Ron started the car. She’d lost track of time, remembered nothing of the interim.

So what was that damned piece of paper, anyhow? A map – like a treasure map? The numbers counting out footsteps from a starting point to a secret hiding place? Or did each digit represent a letter, so the number was a code? Or was it simply a phone number?