“For you,” Jack said. “Couch folds out in here.”
I opened the other door. “A Jacuzzi tub? Hot damn.”
I walked to the counter, took the bottles of shampoo, conditioner, lotion and mouthwash from the basket they’d haphazardly been tossed into, and arranged them on the counter as Jack laid my bag on the bed for me to unpack.
“You like those?” he said, motioning at the tub. “You should get one. Use some of the money.”
I laughed. “How big of a paycheck am I counting on?”
He shrugged. “Big enough.”
I started refolding the towels, which had been put on the rack crooked and seam-side out. “I’ve considered a hot tub for the guests. Nothing fancy, but it would add to the ‘romantic getaway’ allure. The only drawback is hygiene. They don’t strike me as the most sanitary things.”
“Use chemicals, don’t they? Keep ’ em stocked. Change the water. Should be fine.”
“We have plenty of fresh water, so that’d be easy enough.”
“Then get one. For your room, too. A tub. Not the guest rooms. Yours.”
I grinned. “I must be looking at a real windfall here.”
“Just a job.” He turned to leave. “Pizza okay?”
I said that it was, and he went to order while I washed up.
We spent a couple of hours discussing the case over the pizza, laying out scenarios and theories. There was lots of fodder for theorizing now, as if there hadn’t been enough before. Why create a fake Manson connection? Had someone tipped off the Feds? Or had they figured it out, too? How was the killer going to react?
We debated the possibilities into the wee hours, and I loved every minute of it, like those nights with my dad. Not that Jack reminded me of my father-far from it. But it was nice to go back to that memory place again, and to have someone to go there with.
The next morning, I walked to my bedroom door and listened for Jack. Was he still asleep? I hoped so. I wasn’t ready to face him yet.
I’d awoken in the aftermath of a dream. I’d been back in that closet in the hospital. Someone had been coming down the hall, and Jack had been whispering for me to stay still and quiet, and I’d been straining to hear footsteps, heart thumping, adrenaline racing. His hands had slid down my hips and under my skirt, lifting it and-
The dream hadn’t ended there, but that was as far as I planned to remember it.
I knew where the dream came from-being stuffed into that closet with Jack, in the midst of what had been a rather long dry spell. Still, knowing where it sprang from wasn’t going to make facing him this morning any easier.
So I’d dressed as quietly as I could, and now I was hoping to sneak past him and head out for coffee before he awoke. Yet when I cracked open the door, Jack was gone.
There was a note on the table. I wiped the sleep from my eyes, then squinted down at the precise, black strokes. “Getting coffee. Back soon. Wait.”
I could wait. Or I could take a cold shower. But there was something else I could do, too, something my body was screaming for almost as much as it’d been screaming for that dream. I stripped off my clothes and pulled on my jogging pants and T-shirt.
By “wait,” I assumed Jack meant “Don’t go home” or “Don’t have breakfast without me.” Sure, it could mean “Don’t leave the hotel room,” but that’s the problem with one-word sentences-they’re so open to interpretation.
I donned the wig, contacts, mascara and lipstick. Any more makeup than that and I’d be wearing it on my shirt-front by the end of the run. Then I amended his note, crossing off “Getting coffee” and replacing it with “Gone jogging.”
Five minutes later, I was running along a downtown street, weaving past baby strollers and business suits. I doubted I’d make the full 10K. My legs might, but my lungs wouldn’t. Ten kilometers of breathing in exhaust fumes and I’d be ready for the oxygen mask.
I liked to run every morning, but that hadn’t been possible since this started. I didn’t want to be seen jogging around Evelyn’s neighborhood-not when no one else seemed to. That first morning at a motel I hadn’t wanted to slow down the investigation by asking Jack if he minded me taking off for a while. So now I welcomed the excuse.
After a few blocks, I found myself stuck on a street corner, running on the spot, waiting for a very long light to change. A diesel delivery truck cut the corner too sharp and belched blue smoke into my face. I closed my eyes, and pictured falling golden leaves and an endless empty dirt road.
“You look happy,” said a voice at my shoulder.
I tensed as I recognized Quinn’s voice. He’d followed me?
I forced a smile. “Hey, there. Small world.”
The light changed. I started to walk across, but he waved me forward.
“Go ahead. Run. I can keep up.” We broke into a jog. “When I got to your room, Jack said you were out jogging, so I thought I’d join you. Hope that’s okay.”
I slanted him a look. “What did Jack say?”
“I snuck out while he was in the bathroom.”
“Smart man.”
I navigated through the commuter crowd and crossed the road, Quinn at my heels. Once across, the bulk of the crowd turned left. I continued straight. Quinn jogged up alongside me.
“I thought this might be a good time to redo my introduction,” he said. “I came off like a jerk yesterday and I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t like the idea of Jack bringing a stranger on board. I don’t blame you. I think that’s why he didn’t want us to meet. Protecting your privacy-yours and the others.”
We turned a corner.
“So you must be Evelyn’s new protégée,” he said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, because you’re a-” He colored slightly. “Because I can be a sexist moron. Sorry. Again. I didn’t mean to jump to conclusions. You’re not Evelyn’s, then?”
“No, I’m Jack’s.”
When he looked my way, brows raised, I sputtered a laugh. “I mean his protégée. Strictly business. Even ‘protégée’ is probably pushing it.”
Another light. We waited in silence, then crossed.
“How far do you go normally?” he asked.
“Te-” I stopped myself before saying kilometers. “Five miles. Give or take.”
“Every day, I’m guessing.”
He flashed an appreciative glance down my figure. A nice glance-not a leer or an ogle. The appreciative part was good, too. After that dream, I was certainly in the mood for it. I even returned it, though more discreetly. He was wearing jogging pants and an old T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, showing his muscles. Good-looking in a wholesome, athletic way, nothing to stop traffic, but enough to invite the gaze to linger…and enjoy.
He plucked at the sweat-sodden front of his T-shirt and pulled a face. “I definitely need to start doing more cardio myself. Soon, or I’ll be skipping ski season this year.”
“Cross-country or-” I stopped. “Sorry. I guess that’d be prying.”
Quinn whooped a breathless laugh. “That’s what happens when you hang out with Jack. You start thinking ‘What do you take in your coffee?’ might be too personal.”
We turned the corner, then Quinn continued, “Sure, you have to be careful, but there’s still stuff you can talk about. What are you going to do, say, ‘Hmmm, I know Jack likes James Dean movies, nachos with chicken, and Bob Dylan,’ and plug it into some national database to figure out who he really is? Even if I knew his name and social security number, what the hell would I with it?”
“If you were caught, you might find a use for it.”
“Cut a deal, you mean? Considering what he knows about me, I’d be nuts to do that. Anyway, I don’t think that telling you I like to ski is a major security violation. So, yes, I ski. Downhill, as you were about to ask. I keep meaning to try cross-country, but I never get around to it.”
“Cross-country is a good winter substitute for jogging, though it can’t beat downhill for the adrenaline rush. I always think of them as opposite ends of the spectrum. Downhill for getting the heart pumping, cross-country for relaxing.”