GINA WILKINS - The Stranger in Room 205

She was reminding him that she still didn’t quite trust him. Her words should have made him nervous—but instead he found the thought of being watched closely by Serena Schaffer rather intriguing….

Sam’s first glimpse of the Schaffer house made him think again of that magical fictional town that was just a bit too flawless to be real. The tidy white frame house had neat black shutters and a front porch complete with big wooden rockers. Flowers bloomed in the yard. Even the weather contributed to the overall image of unreal perfection. Fluffy white clouds drifted lazily across a sky so blue it looked almost like a painted movie set.

This situation had the makings of a great horror film, he decided with wry whimsy. Two generous, seemingly kindhearted women living in a house straight out of a fairy tale, offering their hospitality to a man whose memory had been mysteriously wiped clean. A half dozen chilling scenarios played through his foggy mind from that beginning. Had he written horror stories in his previous life, or had he simply enjoyed reading them?

Serena followed the driveway around the side of the house and drove into a two-car garage at the back. A small import car was parked in the other bay, and Sam assumed it belonged to Marjorie. He climbed carefully out of Serena’s low two-seater, his aching ribs and muscles protesting the movements. He was forced to steady himself with one hand against the vehicle as the garage swam dizzily around him for a moment.

Serena watched him over the hood of the car. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” He had answered more curtly than he intended, but he hated being so weak in front of her. If he ever found out who had done this to him… Even more important, he’d like to know why.

She insisted on carrying most of the packages—as if he were incapable of toting a few clothes in plastic bags, he thought in exasperation. Making an effort not to limp or cradle his throbbing sprained wrist, he followed Serena out of the garage and down a brick path. The guest house, as Marjorie had referred to it, was mostly hidden from the road, so this was Sam’s first real look at it. Designed to match the style of the main house, it had a front porch just big enough to hold a wooden rocker.

Serena opened the front door with a key she then handed to Sam. Even as he accepted it, he was aware of the risk she was taking in giving it to him. He had no intention of taking advantage of her generosity—but she certainly had no way of knowing that.

The inside of the guest house was as tidy as the outside. Sam didn’t have to be reminded that an elderly lady had lived here. The old-fashioned furniture, doilies and bric-a-brac would have given that away. Feeling like the bull in the china shop, he was pretty sure this was a far cry from the way he usually lived. Yet he was so relieved to be out of the hospital that he would happily coexist with a few doilies. “It’s nice.”

“Grandma called it ‘cozy.’ One bedroom, one bath, a kitchen and this living room. There’s no phone, but you can come to our house if you need to make a call.”

He shrugged. “There’s no one I need to call.”

“Mother stocked fresh linens and a few basic grocery items for you. If you need anything else, feel free to ask.”

“I’m going to pay you and your mother back for everything,” he said, turning to look at her. “The clothes, the food, the rent—you’ll be reimbursed for all of it.”

“We’ll talk about that after you see about your medical bills.” She piled the bags she had carried on one of the two wing chairs. And then she glanced his way, and her eyes narrowed. “Did Dr. Frank send any pain pills home with you?”

“A few, but I don’t need one,” he answered, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head, his wrist, his rib cage—pretty much everywhere.

“I’ll get you a glass of water. You find your pills.”

Her tone didn’t encourage argument, but he tried anyway. “I really don’t—”

“Sam.” She cut in firmly. “You won’t recover unless you take care of yourself. If the pills will let you rest in relative comfort for the next few days, then you should take the pills.”

He lifted an eyebrow. She sounded so determined, it seemed like a waste of breath to argue any further. “Okay. I’ll take one.”

His sudden capitulation apparently caught her off guard. “All right, then,” she said after a moment, and turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll be right back with the water.”

Rather than waiting for her, he followed her into the kitchen, pulling the sample pack of pills out of his pocket. Like the living room, the kitchen was small and efficient, with not an inch of wasted space. Serena opened a cabinet and pulled out a plastic tumbler, which she filled with tap water. She jumped when she turned to find Sam only a step or two away. Water splashed over the side of the tumbler. “I didn’t hear you behind me,” she said unnecessarily.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Did you find your pills?”

He opened his hand to show her the small yellow tablet in his palm.

Serena handed him the tumbler. He swallowed the pill, washed it down with half the water, then reached around her to set the glass on the counter. His arm brushed hers with the movement, and he felt her stiffen. Had the kitchen been bigger, he suspected she would have done a quick sidestep away from him. But since that move would have flattened her against the refrigerator, she stayed where she was. Sam was the one who moved away. As nice as it was to be close to her, he didn’t want to give her a reason to regret offering him a place to recuperate.

“I’ll leave you to settle in,” she said, avoiding his eyes as she moved toward the doorway. “Mother’s cooking a big lunch. She wanted me to invite you to join us—or, if you don’t feel up to that, she’ll bring a plate out to you. The meal should be ready by one, which will give you a couple of hours to rest first.”

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