“Your father?” she inquired carefully. Mary could see Lance’s discomfort, and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”
“No, it’s fine. I just don’t really feel up to talking about it,” Lance said. You’re doing it again, my friend. Push her away. You don’t know how to do anything else, the voice said, and he mentally screamed at it, effectively silencing it.
Mary smiled and leaned close to him. He hugged her instead of pressing his lips against hers. She seemed confused, but hugged him back nonetheless.
“I’ll call you,” Lance said, as he let her go and rounded the back of the Land Rover. Without looking back, he pulled away from the historical building, leaving Mary watching after him.
Chapter 10
“It’s easier to resist at the beginning than at the end.”
—Leonardo da Vinci
The fire crackled and spit in the center of the gazebo as Lance sat in the lawn chair and watched the light leech its final color from the lake. The shotgun rested a few feet away, leaning against the closest wall. An empty bottle of wine sat near the chair’s feet and a wineglass, almost as empty, hung suspended from Lance’s relaxed grip as he peered back down at one of the last ledgers from the box.
After a time, he snapped it shut with an audible crack and tossed it with the others that had been piled haphazardly back in the box. Lance sighed and blinked at the deepening dark of the lake. His sight had taken on the fuzziness that wine always brought, and he could feel the beginnings of a headache that would properly introduce itself in the morning in the back of his neck. At the moment he didn’t care. He had spent another two hours poring over the ledgers, with nothing to show for it. The insane urge to feed all of the books to the glowing fire in the ring a few feet before him became almost irresistible.
Instead, he drained the last of his wine and rose to unroll the sleeping bag he had brought down from the house earlier. He had made the decision to sleep in the gazebo after confirming with John that it had been built long after Erwin had been laid to rest. For some unknown reason, he felt he would be safe sleeping here, just out of reach of the things that no doubt waited for him in the house.
The gazebo felt comfortably warm as he threw on another two pieces of wood to bank the fire for the night. When he eased his body into the heavy material of the sleeping bag, he felt the weariness that had hovered over him the entire day finally settle down and cover him completely in soft waves of exhaustion. Before he could forget, he pulled the shotgun from its resting place and laid it like a lover beside him on the floor. His head buzzed from the wine, and as he closed his eyes to the dancing light of the fire on the roof and walls, he wondered if any more dreams would disturb his sleep. It was a fleeting thought that was chased away almost at once by fatigue, but nonetheless, the last thing he heard as he slipped out of consciousness was his father’s voice: There’s nothing out there for you, boy.
He awoke sometime later. His eyes opened and he almost said yes? As if a question had just been asked of him in the darkness. The fire had burned low, and only coals now radiated a pale red glow that illuminated the gazebo in pulsing shadow. When he turned his head toward the door, which he had locked tight upon entering, he felt the throb of the wine at the base of his skull.
Lance pushed himself out of the sleeping bag and into a sitting position. He squinted at the darkness beyond the reflection of the dying fire in the glass and noticed a partial moon hanging over the lake. The stain would be there on the floor, shining in the moonlight. Would the door be open now, at this instant? Would something be standing there, looking out the window at him, if he turned his head just a little and looked over his shoulder?