Page 43 of Guilty as Sin
The sound of a deadbolt turning, and her door opened. “I live alone,” she said.
“No worries. It’s good to be careful. Not the best code word, though. My dog’s with me heaps. Anybody could know his name. Ask for my mum’s name next time.”
“Which is?”
“Fiona.”
“Oh. Nice name.”” Her feet were bare, her hair mussed. She was still in the green dress, but she still hadn’t put on makeup, and he wondered about that. Every time he’d seen her before, even with the goats, she’d been wearing makeup. And she was still holding the door.
He held up the paper sack. “It’s not much, but it’s dinner. I can leave yours with you if you’d rather.”Easy. No sudden moves. Nice and slow.
She stepped back at last. “No. Please. Come in. Sorry about that.”
He stepped inside, onto the postage-stamp-sized stone entryway floor, and said, “Kitchen?”
“Kitchen’s about it.” She smiled, the lines of strain still showing on her face. “It’s not a big house.”
“You like it, though.”
“Oh, you know.” She shrugged. “I’m going to run up and change. Hope there’s nothing to get cold.”
“No. Literally sandwiches.”
She came through the kitchen doorway less than ten minutes later with her hair still damp but a bit more tamed, dressed in gray leggings, pink socks, and an oversized pink sweater that fell off one shoulder to reveal a ribbon of pink satin. And she still wasn’t wearing makeup.
She looked fluffy, and she didn’t. She climbed onto her stool, and he rotated the two plates in front of her. “Ham sandwich, turkey sandwich. Take your pick.”
“Ham,” she said, and he shoved the plate her way and took the other one. She picked up the mug he’d set at her place, took a sip, and said, “Tea, huh? How Australian of you. At least I’m guessing it is. I don’t actually know any Australians.”
“Except me. And yeah. Universal remedy. I made myself at home, as you see. I didn’t know whether you’d want milk.”
“I do.” She made to get down from the stool, and he put a hand out and said, “Stay,” then went to the fridge and grabbed the half-full bottle of goat milk.
“I’m sure you’d rather have beer,” she said when he’d brought it back to her. “I haven’t had a chance to do much shopping yet.” She was already making inroads on her sandwich, and that was good. She’d feel better when she had something in her stomach, however much she was trying to hide her weakness. A new experience for him. Women who looked like that generally assumed you’d prop them up in their weakness.
Of course, that could be his misogyny showing again.
“No,” he said. “I don’t drink much these days.”
“The PTSD.”
He shot another look at her. That had been matter-of-fact. “Yeah. It’s not a good idea. Surprised you know.”
“Self-medication’s a thing,” she said. “To medicate any other way, or to get help, you have to admit you need it. Not always easy.”
“But then,” he said, “what is? Not being a soldier or a cop. Not being involved with a soldier or a cop.”
A sidelong glance from under her lashes. “Was that your attempt at subtlety?”
He grinned, said, “You’re feeling better, I see,” and took another bite of sandwich. It was nearly nine o’clock, and the dark rectangle of window showed her reflection. He wanted to close the shades, but there weren’t any. He didn’t like it. “Have you had any more texts? The kind you had this morning?”
“What?” A blank look, and then she said, “Oh. I haven’t checked. I should.”
“Where’s your phone?” It felt urgent, suddenly. It was all that blank black window beside her. The one anybody outside could look straight through.
“My bag. Uh… on the landing. By the washing machine.”
“Mind if I get it?”
