Debra Webb - Dark Whispers

She exited the car. He shut the door and, from all appearances, that would have been the end of it.

“Wait.”

He turned back to her and with the soft glow of the restaurant lights she could see his expression well enough to know he wasn’t angry...it was something else. Had her question injured him somehow? She blinked and wrestled with the best way to handle the situation. Since her injury she rarely grabbed on to the right emotions much less the proper words in a timely manner. She had taught herself to resist emotion and to react with the cool calm for which she had once been known in the courtroom.

“I apologize for asking such a personal question. I’m afraid the injury has left me with far fewer filters than I once possessed. I hope you’ll accept my apology.”

He nodded, his only consolation to acceptance. “I had dinner here last week. The salmon is incredible.”

“Does your expense account cover this restaurant?” The words were out of her mouth before Natalie could stop them. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

Clint touched her arm and she opened her eyes. “This one is on me,” he assured her, his tone the deep, warm one she had grown to associate with him.

Before she could argue about who would pay, he ushered her through the entrance and she decided to stop trying so hard...at least for the next hour or so.

Southwood Road

9:20 p.m.

AS HE HAD last evening, Clint insisted on going into the house first. Her sister had phoned to say she was coming to spend the night but she would be late. Natalie wanted to tell her not to bother but she wouldn’t pretend she wasn’t terrified at the idea of being alone at night after the ordeal with the intruder. The idea made little sense since it had been broad daylight when she shot the man in her kitchen.

You did shoot him...didn’t you?

The idea that she was second-guessing herself again after finally, finally reaching the place where she felt she’d regained her confidence made her sick to her stomach.

Clint paused at the bottom of the staircase and she raised her hand. “No need to check upstairs. The security system was armed. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“I wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight if I wasn’t thorough.”

Natalie nodded, surrendering. “I probably wouldn’t, either,” she confessed.

Side by side they moved up the staircase. She was never able to climb or descend the stairs without admiring the painting of her family as it had once been. Life had felt so safe and so happy then. It seemed unfair she’d lost both her parents before she was thirty. Particularly since they had both been healthy and vibrant. If they were still alive, what would they think of Natalie and her sister? Would her father be proud Heath had been so successful following in his footsteps? Certainly April had become every bit the fund-raising and society queen their mother had been. Natalie sometimes regretted that her sister had not chosen a career path, but in truth what she did was immensely important to the community.

“You grew up in this house?” Clint asked as they reached the landing.

She nodded. “My grandfather built it. He and my grandmother lived here until they died. My parents did, as well. I suppose I will, too.” She caught herself before she suggested it was her turn for a personal question. Not a good idea. His assignment necessitated the asking of questions.

“My father died when I was at Samford,” he said, somehow understanding her need for reciprocity. “My mother remarried and moved to Arizona a few years ago.”

“You miss them? I still miss mine.”

He checked the first of the half dozen bedrooms as well as each of the en suite baths. Just when she was certain he didn’t intend to answer, he said, “I do. My mother calls a couple of times a month, but she rarely gets home anymore. I should visit her more often but I don’t think Oscar likes me.”

He chuckled and the sound made Natalie smile. He had a nice laugh for a man who preferred not to talk about his early career decisions.

Silence lapsed between them as they moved through room after room. He took extra care with the upstairs den and the balcony that overlooked the rear gardens. The French doors were locked, the security monitor in place. She and her sister had played here as children. In the gardens, too; but not without the nanny. The Drummond name and money had always been a target.

When they reached Natalie’s bedroom, she touched his arm. “Please, ignore what you see in my private space.”

His dark eyes held hers for a long beat. “I understand the need for personal privacy, Natalie. You can trust me with your secrets.”

As foolish as it sounded, she did. Perhaps her need for his understanding was because his academic background was so similar to hers. If he believed her...then maybe she wasn’t losing her mind.

The room was neat and freshly cleaned. Suzanna was a perfectionist and perhaps was afflicted with more than a little OCD. On the table next to Natalie’s side of the king-size bed were the first of the many notes to herself. Those on the bedside table reminded her to shut off the alarm and to plug and unplug her cell phone as well as to put it into the pocket of whatever jacket, sweater or coat she would wear for the day.

Each drawer of the room’s furnishings was labeled with what would be found stored in that space. In the closet her clothes were arranged in groupings so that whatever she needed for the day was together. No rifling through blouses or shoes and trying to match. April helped her keep her wardrobe arranged. The first time Natalie left the house with a mismatched ensemble, her sister was mortified and insisted on ensuring it never happened again. Natalie supposed it was necessary since her appearance reflected on the firm as well as the family name. April reminded Natalie that she’d had impeccable taste before the fall. Natalie still liked the same things, she simply felt confused at times when she attempted to put together an ensemble.

One of many things she missed about her old self. Thankfully the occurrences of confusion were becoming more rare, or they had been until the intruder. Most likely she would be fine without all the notes to remind her. She simply hadn’t found the courage to do away with them yet. Soon, she promised herself. Her real hesitation was the fear of failure. As long as the notes were there, she didn’t have to face her potential inability to work without them.

Though her walk-in closet was quite generously sized, somehow Clint’s broad shoulders and tall, lean frame overwhelmed the intimate space. It was then that his aftershave or cologne teased her senses once more. She had noticed the subtle scent in the car. Something earthy and organically spicy as if it were as natural to his body as his smooth, tanned skin. She was immensely grateful she hadn’t lost her sense of smell. Many who suffered TBIs weren’t so fortunate.

He turned and she jumped. “Sorry.” She took a deep breath and followed him into the en suite. There were more notes here. The ones that told her in what order to do her nightly ritual, those that reminded her of where things were stored. Like the others, she didn’t rely on them as much as she had before. This time when he turned to her she felt the weight of his sympathy.

There was nothing since the injury that hurt her more—not the ongoing healing, not the physical therapy, not even the endless hours of analyzing by the shrinks—than the looks of pity in the eyes of anyone who learned the full scope of her loss.

“The house is clear. I’ll stay until your sister arrives.”

She wanted to argue. Damn it, she really did. She wanted to tell him in no uncertain terms that she was perfectly fine and capable of taking care of herself as she always had been. Except...she wasn’t so sure of that anymore. “Thank you.”