Warnings and alarms rushed through Claire’s mind as time stood still. Her body involuntarily sought to run -- the flight instinct. However, that monologue had been talked to death -- run where? She’d started a life. Therefore, flight wasn’t an option. Therefore, biology told her to fight. Not physically, Claire knew that wasn’t possible. This scenario was what she’d hoped to avoid. The text messages and voicemail confirmed her fear.
Naïvely she’d hoped -- no prayed -- since she hadn’t heard anything for two weeks, maybe Tony would just let her go. It may’ve been fantasy, but the two week reprieve was heavenly.
Claire stood to go to her room. She would finish the article on her laptop, later.
Harry tried again, “Claire, please tell me what’s happening.”
“Nothing, I’m fine.” She made to the hallway before Harry touched her shoulder.
The contact initiated an immediate flinch. Straightening her spine, she spun to face him. A look of terror and panic filled her beautiful eyes. The expression shocked him. Harry expected sad or maybe mad, but what he saw was unbridled fear. It took his breath away. While an investigator for the Bureau he’d seen that look. Without thinking, he asked, “What did he do to you?”
Her eyes muted, a haze covered the brief glimpse into her true feelings. Claire’s countenance turned stoic. “Harry, I need to take a shower. Thank you for checking on me. I’m fine, and I know you need to get to SiJo.” Mustering a forced grin she continued, “I hear your boss is getting upset about all your recent time off.”
He wanted to question her. Inquisition procedures were his specialty. However, she wasn’t a suspect. She was his sister’s friend – no, his friend. During the past two weeks they’d spent countless hours working as a team to put pieces of her life back together. He knew about the box of memories Anthony Rawlings sent her. He knew she looked like a child at Christmas when she purchased a telephone. He knew she did not attempt to murder her ex-husband. Of course, that was just Claire’s word, but Harry believed her.
He didn’t know about her life with Mr. Rawlings. Somehow, whenever the subject came up, she eloquently changed it. Now the churning in his gut told him why. This petite, funny, friendly, pretty, delicate, kind woman in front of him was hurt. Maybe, just maybe, it was only a broken heart.
It has been said, people drawn to law enforcement have a sixth sense, an ability to see what others do not. He prayed he was wrong. His sixth sense said there was much more than a broken heart in Claire’s past.
Harry pushed his questions away, “Your right, I do need to get into the office. Are you still going to Mr. Pulvara’s?”
“Yes, my appointment is at eleven. I really need to get ready.”
“I’m sorry if I overstepped some bounds. I won’t push you; it’s none of my business.” The haze covering her eyes evaporated; the emerald green began to shine. Harry added, “If you need anything, you know my cell.”
She smiled up at him and sighed, “Thanks, Harry, see you later.” She turned toward the hall, speaking over her shoulder. “Please lock the door on your way out.”
Claire closed the bedroom door with the weight of her shoulders. The glossy wood felt smooth behind her head. She strained to hear the sound of the front door close and lock. The still coolness of her room filled her lungs. After enough time passed, Claire allowed more warm tears to flow. Her trembling hand pushed the small button on her door knob. She produced a mental checklist: security guard, locked front door, and locked bedroom door – was it enough? Suddenly chilled, Claire wrapped her arms around her torso and felt the shuddering of her chest as sobs resonated uncontrollably. After a few minutes she blinked away the moisture, tried desperately to calm her unsteady hands, and sent Emily and Courtney a text: GOT YOUR MESSAGE. THANKS. IM GOOD. CALL WHEN YOU CAN. I LOVE YOU TOO.
Hot water pelted her upturned face as she stepped into the shower. The sensation of warmth flowed over her. Slowly, the heaviness washed away from her soul. By the time her feet hit the tile floor her thoughts centered on the future. The past was gone. She had survived. She wasn’t the same woman Anthony Rawlings took three years ago.
As Claire exited the elevator with her telephones in tow she inhaled the unique scents of the parking garage. Easing herself into the leather driver’s seat of her car, she relished her new found independence. Yes, life threw her some obstacles; she was stronger for them.
The GPS instructed her to turn right from the garage. The morning fog had begun to dissipate revealing patches of pale blue sky. She turned her Honda into traffic and thought about the jewelry inside her purse. Her lips turned upward as she pondered the value and remembered Anthony’s perpetuity for appearance. This time, she hoped it would work in her favor.
Light thinks it travels faster than anything, but it is wrong.
No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first,
and is waiting for it.
- Terry Pratchett. Chapter 4
Sophia watched her husband pack his suitcase. “Derek, I just got back from Florence. Can’t you stay home?”
“I told you, they want to meet me face-to-face.”
Sophia sighed and smoothed the t-shirts he’d so precisely placed into the bag. It was so different from the way she packed. But then again, they were different. Some of their friends called them Darma and Greg. Looking at Derek’s suits, pressed shirts, and cuff links, they definitely had different styles. However, those differences brought them together and kept them united.
Naïvely she’d hoped -- no prayed -- since she hadn’t heard anything for two weeks, maybe Tony would just let her go. It may’ve been fantasy, but the two week reprieve was heavenly.
Claire stood to go to her room. She would finish the article on her laptop, later.
Harry tried again, “Claire, please tell me what’s happening.”
“Nothing, I’m fine.” She made to the hallway before Harry touched her shoulder.
The contact initiated an immediate flinch. Straightening her spine, she spun to face him. A look of terror and panic filled her beautiful eyes. The expression shocked him. Harry expected sad or maybe mad, but what he saw was unbridled fear. It took his breath away. While an investigator for the Bureau he’d seen that look. Without thinking, he asked, “What did he do to you?”
Her eyes muted, a haze covered the brief glimpse into her true feelings. Claire’s countenance turned stoic. “Harry, I need to take a shower. Thank you for checking on me. I’m fine, and I know you need to get to SiJo.” Mustering a forced grin she continued, “I hear your boss is getting upset about all your recent time off.”
He wanted to question her. Inquisition procedures were his specialty. However, she wasn’t a suspect. She was his sister’s friend – no, his friend. During the past two weeks they’d spent countless hours working as a team to put pieces of her life back together. He knew about the box of memories Anthony Rawlings sent her. He knew she looked like a child at Christmas when she purchased a telephone. He knew she did not attempt to murder her ex-husband. Of course, that was just Claire’s word, but Harry believed her.
He didn’t know about her life with Mr. Rawlings. Somehow, whenever the subject came up, she eloquently changed it. Now the churning in his gut told him why. This petite, funny, friendly, pretty, delicate, kind woman in front of him was hurt. Maybe, just maybe, it was only a broken heart.
It has been said, people drawn to law enforcement have a sixth sense, an ability to see what others do not. He prayed he was wrong. His sixth sense said there was much more than a broken heart in Claire’s past.
Harry pushed his questions away, “Your right, I do need to get into the office. Are you still going to Mr. Pulvara’s?”
“Yes, my appointment is at eleven. I really need to get ready.”
“I’m sorry if I overstepped some bounds. I won’t push you; it’s none of my business.” The haze covering her eyes evaporated; the emerald green began to shine. Harry added, “If you need anything, you know my cell.”
She smiled up at him and sighed, “Thanks, Harry, see you later.” She turned toward the hall, speaking over her shoulder. “Please lock the door on your way out.”
Claire closed the bedroom door with the weight of her shoulders. The glossy wood felt smooth behind her head. She strained to hear the sound of the front door close and lock. The still coolness of her room filled her lungs. After enough time passed, Claire allowed more warm tears to flow. Her trembling hand pushed the small button on her door knob. She produced a mental checklist: security guard, locked front door, and locked bedroom door – was it enough? Suddenly chilled, Claire wrapped her arms around her torso and felt the shuddering of her chest as sobs resonated uncontrollably. After a few minutes she blinked away the moisture, tried desperately to calm her unsteady hands, and sent Emily and Courtney a text: GOT YOUR MESSAGE. THANKS. IM GOOD. CALL WHEN YOU CAN. I LOVE YOU TOO.
Hot water pelted her upturned face as she stepped into the shower. The sensation of warmth flowed over her. Slowly, the heaviness washed away from her soul. By the time her feet hit the tile floor her thoughts centered on the future. The past was gone. She had survived. She wasn’t the same woman Anthony Rawlings took three years ago.
As Claire exited the elevator with her telephones in tow she inhaled the unique scents of the parking garage. Easing herself into the leather driver’s seat of her car, she relished her new found independence. Yes, life threw her some obstacles; she was stronger for them.
The GPS instructed her to turn right from the garage. The morning fog had begun to dissipate revealing patches of pale blue sky. She turned her Honda into traffic and thought about the jewelry inside her purse. Her lips turned upward as she pondered the value and remembered Anthony’s perpetuity for appearance. This time, she hoped it would work in her favor.
Light thinks it travels faster than anything, but it is wrong.
No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first,
and is waiting for it.
- Terry Pratchett. Chapter 4
Sophia watched her husband pack his suitcase. “Derek, I just got back from Florence. Can’t you stay home?”
“I told you, they want to meet me face-to-face.”
Sophia sighed and smoothed the t-shirts he’d so precisely placed into the bag. It was so different from the way she packed. But then again, they were different. Some of their friends called them Darma and Greg. Looking at Derek’s suits, pressed shirts, and cuff links, they definitely had different styles. However, those differences brought them together and kept them united.
