Edge of Midnight by Charlene Weir Page B

correctly.
    Despite the shimmering heat, Hampstead was a pretty little town, from what Cary could see with her circle of sight. Wide, tree-lined streets, snug little houses swept up against small hills. Mixture of architecture, some old, some new. Inside one or two homes, she could see people sitting down to lunch. Were any of them wary of their husbands, tense, and putting out food with shaky hands, hoping he wouldn’t find fault with something?
    Sometimes when she’d called Mitch to a meal, he’d said, “Be right there.” Then he’d finished reading the paper, come to the table, and slapped her across the face because the food was cold. She was such a fool. She should have picked up the food and dumped it in his lap. How could she have let that sort of thing go on all those years?
    â€œThis is the place.” Past a section of older homes way on the edge of town, the cabbie pulled into the graveled drive of an old Victorian house, weathered white paint, with a porch running all the way across the front and along one side, turrets and a steep pitched roof. A thick row of trees grew behind it. Beyond the trees on the right was an uneven paving-stone path leading to an old stone barn and outbuildings. A dirt road ran past the barn; across the road was an endless field of corn.
    This was a mistake. How could she just turn up on the doorstep of a total stranger like some stray cat? What if Arlette had steamrollered Kelby and she would be appalled to see her? What if Kelby had plans? Still wasn’t home? Was in bed with someone? Oh, dear God, why didn’t she just find a motel and think this through? Maybe she should go back to the bus station and take the next bus to California.
    Forget it. She didn’t have enough money for a bus ticket to anywhere. No credit cards, no checks, no ID. All left at home so she couldn’t be identified. As she started toward the house, the wind swept in off the prairie with a hot edge of grit that sanded her face. At least in California the wind didn’t push the words right down your throat.
    â€œThank you.” She paid the driver and he squealed away. Corn stalks, stirred by the wind, whispered mockingly.
    For a second or two she stood braced against the wind, then let it move her toward the house. With a little prayer to a God she no longer believed in, she went up the steps. Her heels made hollow clumping sounds.
    Please be home. Please let me in. She pressed a thumb against the doorbell.
    Her knock went unanswered. She peered in the window to the right of the door. Hardwood floors, Victorian sofa. In the corner where the porch turned and went along the left side was an old-fashioned swing, the kind mounted in a frame that rocked back and forth, sitting by the rail. She plopped herself down in it. A glance at her watch showed nearly five o’clock.
    Surely Kelby would be back soon. Wouldn’t she?
    Cary took out her book. Her poor vision made reading a struggle. After two hours, daylight started to fade. She walked the length of the porch, peered in all the windows, stood at the east end, and stared out at the corn field. Something menacing about it. Like it was watching her. Despite the heat, she shivered. Anxiety had kept her awake the night before she left and she’d only been able to doze periodically on the bus. She felt near some zombie state. Sitting in the swing, she curled her feet under her and let her eyes close.
    *   *   *
    A bright light shone in her eyes.
    Flashlight! Oh my God! Mitch!
    She opened her eyes to darkness. Like a hunted animal, she made herself small and didn’t move. It took seconds to figure out where she was. The light shining in her eyes was the moon riding in a black sky. She heard rustlings as small animals went about their business. How long had she been asleep? She squinted at her watch. Nine o’clock? Two hours.
    She was so creaky and stiff, she felt permanently frozen in a