Page 18 of Bedroom Therapy

She could remind him that they barely knew each other. But she didn’t do it—for several reasons that she didn’t want to examine too closely. First and foremost, she knew she’d be a fool to send him on his way when he was offering to protect her.

“We could both stay here,” she said.

“We could. But I’ve been up for over twenty-four hours. I need some sleep. And I’ll feel better about getting it if I know the guy who broke in doesn’t know your location.”

“All right.”

“Pack some clothes.”

“Everything?”

“Just enough for a few days,”

“And my work.”

“Yes.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the Duck Blind Motel.”

“To your room?”

He looked at his watch. “The office is closed. My room will have to do for tonight. Then we’ll think of something else.”

She didn’t want to be locked in a motel room with Zachary Grant. The idea seemed much too intimate. But what he was saying made sense.

He followed her down the hall. When she got to her bedroom, she stopped short. A chair lay on its side. And the bedcovers were hanging off on the floor.

“What happened in here?” she asked.

“He and I got into it. Unfortunately, he shoved me onto the bed and beat it,” he clipped out, and she realized he didn’t want to discuss the details.

Repressing further questions, she pulled on a pair of sweatpants and athletic shoes, then hurriedly packed some clothing. When she returned to the living room, she stuffed the letters back into their mail sack. All she had to do then was put her laptop back into its case.

“Ready?” Zach asked.

“As ready as I will be,” she answered. Following him out of the house, she locked the door, then wondered what good that would do.

A feeling of unreality gripped her as she climbed into his car.

“You got here fast. I guess the motel is pretty close,” she said into the confined space.

“Yes, but we’re not going straight there. I’ve got to make sure nobody is following us.”

She answered with a tight nod, thinking that she’d put herself into this man’s hands. Now she was having second thoughts about her hasty decision.

She tried to relax as he headed for the highway, then took another exit back into town—his attention divided between the road ahead and the rearview mirror.

It was after one in the morning, and there was little traffic on the road. As far as she could tell, there were no white vans—or anybody else—following them.

Finally, he pulled into the parking lot of a small, nondescript motel that fronted on Route 50.

His room was at one end. After he’d turned on the light and helped her carry her stuff inside, she looked around at the small space. There was a queen-sized bed, a table and two inexpensive armchairs by the window, a dresser with the requisite television set, and not much else.

The first words she heard herself saying were, “We can’t both sleep in that bed.”

“I can sleep in a chair,” he shot back, crossing the room and pulling one of the chairs around to face the other.

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