Journey by Karina Sharp, Carrie Ann Foster, Good Girl Graphics Page B

the home still furnished and clean, gives me an eerie feeling.  Why would a vacant estate remain fully furnished and completely as it was when the inhabitants were here, but not the exterior?  It’s very strange.  I want to find a way in, so I can snoop further, but I listen to the little voice inside my head that tells me I should make my leave.
                  I turn toward my escape route when I hear, “What do you want?” in a lovely, but irritated, baritone voice.  
                  I simultaneously jump and squeal and, on instinct, immediately attempt to run away as if the cops just caught me drinking whilst underage.  When I take my first step, my foot lands on a large rock, my ankle twists, and I find myself on my ass, trying not to look up at the source of the inquiry.  
                  Scrambling to get back up, the voice moves closer to me.  “Are you okay?”
                  My hair is in my face, my sun dress up above my waist, and I struggle to get up.  
                  “Just stay right there,” the voice says smoothly as footsteps move closer to me.  
                  I can’t bring myself to look up, I just know he must be a police officer.  I moved to this area to start a new life, and this is definitely not the way I planned to start.  I know full well how gossip sprints around in small towns.
                  Well-manicured feet wearing brown leather flip-flops stop right in front of me.  
                  “I’m so sorry...I...err...I didn’t realize anyone was here.  I didn’t mean to trespass.”
                  Tangled auburn hair covers my face as I reach down to feel my ankle.  It’s painful and swollen, but not broken.  It hurts more than I’m willing to let on, though.
                  “Is your foot okay?”
                  “It will be fine.  It’s not broken; I probably just twisted it.”
                  I look up to see a man, a very handsome man, towering over me.  He is definitely not what I pictured when I heard his voice the first time.  I don’t know that I really pictured anything, but his face looks a lot kinder than the tone I heard, although his eyes look tired and hardened.  His dark, almost black, hair is a little shaggy, wavy locks hanging over his eyes and ears.  Although he doesn’t have a full beard, he appears to have remained unshaven for quite some time.  Sunlight struggles to beam through the canopy of trees and shrubs, making the area dark and shadowy.  Even in the dim light and under the wiry brush of facial hair, I see strong and handsome features.  
                  He continues to stare at me, expectantly, so I feel the need to further explain myself.  “I’m so sorry for trespassing.  I didn’t think anyone was home.  I was on the beach over there and saw this incredible looking home.  I’m a little nosy, so I wanted to come see it closer.  Are you a neighbor or something?”
                  His eyes deepen with fatigue, I think.  I‘m really uncomfortable now.  Why does he just stare at me?  I look down to my throbbing ankle and attempt to stand back up.  When I try to put weight on it, I grimace, to which this handsome, silent stranger takes notice.  He offers his hand to me for assistance.
                  “I think I can manage myself,” I say, embarrassed and trying to leave as quickly as possible.
                  “Clearly you can’t,” he says flatly, hand still extended.
                  “Yes I can!  I don’t need assistance; I can do things myself,” I respond resolutely.  
                  “Suit yourself.”  He takes his hand away and watches me.
                  “I will, thank you very much.”
                  I help myself up from the pavement and begin to