Marilyn Pappano - Copper Lake Confidential

For a moment, her features tightened even more, then relaxed a little. “Sure,” she said, opening the door to allow him and Scooter inside. “Bring it in.”

The instant the front door closed behind Stephen on his way to get the pizza, Macy grimaced. The last thing she wanted tonight was to have dinner with a stranger and his dog, even if it was a Luigi’s pizza.

No, the last thing she wanted was to be alone in this house. And with this being their third visit in one day, Stephen wasn’t exactly a stranger anymore. If he were a homicidal maniac—like Mark—he’d had enough chances at her already. And she liked his dog. Scooter was sweet and cuddly, and the Lab neither suspected nor cared that she was apparently delusional.

Her gut tightened, her stomach heaving so violently that she pressed one hand to her abdomen, the other to her mouth. Had she really seen someone in the guesthouse? Was she crazy? Was she already losing the balance she’d fought so hard to recover?

Since there was absolutely no sign of anyone having trespassed on the property, she couldn’t have seen someone, but she preferred to think she’d overreacted rather than imagined a threat. She was anxious about being here. Under the circumstances, who wouldn’t be?

She’d let memory get the best of her and made a fool of herself, but now it was over. At least she’d had the luck to find Stephen driving past and not one of the neighbors she knew, and enough control to stop him from calling the police. She didn’t know if her months in the psychiatric hospital were common knowledge in Copper Lake, but she didn’t intend to give anyone reason to doubt her sanity. No panicked calls to the police about nonexistent intruders. No more fodder for the town gossips.

And she could look on this dinner as therapy. If she and Clary were ever going to have a normal life, she had to learn how to socialize again. Small talk, no anxiety attacks, just a well-adjusted woman sharing a pizza with a man who’d done her a favor.

The front door clicked, signaling Stephen’s return, and she moved to the cabinets, taking out plates, glasses and napkins. An earlier check of the refrigerator had revealed that Robbie Calloway—or, more likely, Anamaria—had had it stocked with the basics, so she removed a jug of iced tea, a couple of bottles of water and a couple of bottles of her favorite pop.

The enticing aromas of the pizza entered the kitchen a few seconds ahead of Stephen and Scooter. For just a moment, Macy felt light, eagerly anticipating the pleasure to come. It was a fleeting sensation, one she’d almost forgotten, and it left an ache when her usual uneasiness replaced it.

“I should have asked…do you mind having Scooter inside? I can run him home if you’d prefer.”

She thought of all the things the dog could damage—antique rugs peed on, wood floors scratched, delicate porcelain broken with a swipe of his tail—and a smile blossomed across her face. “No, he’s fine. Nothing in here is that important.” Not to her, at least. Anything he did damage would just be one less thing for her to find a home for.

They settled across from each other at the small dining table that separated the kitchen from the family room. Scooter took up a position exactly between them, looking excitedly from one to the other.

“He’s a beautiful dog,” she commented. “I’m thinking of getting one for my daughter and me.”

“Your daughter?” Stephen stood and crossed the few feet into the kitchen. “Knife?”

She nodded toward the block on one counter pushed far out of reach of little fingers. “Clary. She’s three. She’s in Charleston with my brother and his wife. They’re coming up Friday to help.”

Returning with a paring knife, he cut a slice of pizza into Scooter-sized pieces, fed one to the dog, then took a bite of his own slice. “You have any particular breed in mind?”

The one time she’d broached the subject with Mark, he’d listed the breeds he would find acceptable—in other words, very expensive—before giving a flat refusal. She had been disappointed by both responses but hadn’t really expected anything else. After all, an over-the-top belief in their own superiority was a defining characteristic of the Howard family, and Mark liked order. A yappy puppy would have upset that.

With those expensive, purebred animals in mind, she replied, “Something without a pedigree. One that needs a home and is good with kids.”

“There’s a no-kill shelter just outside town. Unfortunately, they have plenty that meet your requirements.”

Macy chewed her first bite, and the pleasure she’d briefly anticipated bloomed through her. It was almost enough to make her moan. After swallowing, she asked, “Is that where Scooter came from?”

“Nope. A client bought him sight unseen, didn’t do any training, then wanted me to put him down because he didn’t behave. He’s been with me ever since.”

“I wish I could say I was surprised, but my husband’s grandmother generally turned down visits with her only great-grandchild because Clary refused to be merely seen and not heard.” Miss Willa had had no patience for the baby, just as Mark would have had no tolerance for an exuberant dog. He’d killed people for no more reason than he wanted to. It was doubtful he would have spared a dog that was less than perfect.

Revulsion rippled through her, her fingers gripping her glass until the tips turned white. She took a couple of deep calming breaths and was grateful to hear Stephen go on talking, though for a moment the words were dampened by the hum in her ears.

“—is afraid she’s never going to get grandkids, much less great-grandkids,” he was saying when she could focus. “I tell her she should have had more than just the two of us. I doubt ‘procreate’ even makes Marnie’s list of things to do in this lifetime, and I—Well, gotta have a wife before I have kids.”

“You’re not married?”

“Not for a long time. Sloan and I met in vet school, graduated together and both got jobs in Wyoming. I did small animals, she did large. I hated the winter, she loved it. I didn’t want to stay, and she didn’t want to leave.” He shrugged as if his marriage and divorce had been that simple. No sign of regret in his voice. No heartbreak in his eyes.

She gave the obligatory I’m sorry , and he shrugged again, a loose, easy movement.

“Sometimes things don’t work out. She’s happy there. I’m happy here.” He reached for a second slice of pizza. “What about you? Is there an ex-husband somewhere?”

Her hand trembled, and a chunk of onion fell to her lap. She set down the pizza, grabbed a napkin and wiped the spot it left on her dress while her mind raced. Wouldn’t it be okay to lie, to simply say, “We’re divorced. He’s out of the picture”? It wasn’t as if she were staying in Copper Lake or would even see Stephen again once she left next week. Not every person who asked was entitled to the truth about Mark. It could be her little secret.

Her dirty little secret. Just as Mark had his.

He’d wound up dead because of his.

She took a drink to ease the dryness in her mouth, then folded both hands together in her lap, out of Stephen’s sight, and opened her mouth to tell the lie. But the wrong words came out. “No. He’s an ex only in the sense that he’s not around. He, um, died a year and a half ago.”

That was the first time she’d said the words out loud. She hadn’t had to tell her family when it happened because the sheriff did it for her. She hadn’t had to tell Clary because her daughter was too young to ask. Everyone else had found out through the media or the very efficient gossip network.