Dishes in the sink, clutter on the counters, dirt tracked on the floors, spilled food and water around the dog’s bowls . . .
Her first instinct is to start tidying up. Still wearing her coat, with her purse and overnight bag hanging from her shoulders, she begins with the coffeemaker. After pouring this morning’s stale brew down the drain, she dumps the cold, wet grounds into the nearly overflowing—-of course—-garbage can, and opens the dishwasher. It, too, is full, and someone—-Gee, I wonder who?—-forgot to run it. The dishes inside weren’t rinsed so they’re caked in crud. Among them is the chipped red pitcher from their childhood home.
Noreen closes the dishwasher and steps away.
She’s not here to clean up this mess. She’s here to clean up the bigger one.
Maybe, if she can set this loser Rick Walker straight and help her sister get past this marital setback, she’ll feel better about all the things she can’t fix in her own life.
Still, she walks through the first floor with a critical eye. Throw rugs are slightly askew, closet doors ajar, coats draped over chairs, shoes are scattered on the floor . . .
The dog, when she comes across him napping on the sofa, shouldn’t be shedding on the furniture, and he should be barking at her presence.
And there are far too many framed family photos, she decides when she reaches the front hall. Especially on the wall leading up the stairs, where they’re hung in mismatched frames of all shapes and sizes.
Hearing a rustling sound behind her, she spins around.
No one is there.
She never did like old houses. She doesn’t believe that they’re haunted, but they do creak and groan. Settling noises, her parents used to call them. Which never made sense to Noreen, because old houses should have had plenty of time to settle.
Again, she hears the sound.
Again, she whirls around.
This time someone is there.
This is the moment Casey has anticipated for months, years. Yet now it’s finally arrived, it isn’t quite right. It isn’t right at all.
Coming face to face with Rowan Mundy at last, Casey confirms that all the familiar components are accounted for: the compact build, fine bone structure, speckled green eyes, long, lovely cinnamon--colored hair . . .
It’s all there, but . . . different. Off.
Why? Casey wonders, his brain muddled in confusion. Is it because of time passing? Proximity? Perspective?
It’s been a few weeks now since he last glimpsed her even from afar, but still . . .
Close up, she seems taller and leaner than she should. There’s not a hint of freckle on her face. Her hair—-her beautiful hair—-is pulled back in a severe ponytail. She never wears it that way.
But it’s her eyes—-the expression in her eyes—-that is most startling. She isn’t just wary or even frightened or furious. Her gaze is calm and cold. Stone cold. So is her voice when she addresses him; the pitch lower and barely recognizable.
“You’re not Rick Walker.”
“No.” He pushes aside his confusion, forcing a laugh. “I know you were expecting him, but he’s . . . incapacitated.”
“Who are you?”
“Oh, Rowan . . . you don’t recognize me? Really?”
“I’m not—-”
“I’d be insulted,” he goes on, cutting her off abruptly, “if I believed you.”
“You don’t?”
“Of course not.”
There’s a subtle shift in her gaze as she stares at him. She tilts her head, studying him, and then shakes it. It’s obvious that she’s stalling, buying time by pretending not to know who he is, but that’s okay. He’s the one in control here.
“My memory isn’t what it used to be,” she says. -“People change.”
“You have a point. I was just a boy the last time we saw each other. Now I’m a man. A real man.”
He stretches a hand toward her. As if she senses that his intent is not to shake hands, but to caress her, she recoils quickly—-too quickly. That, too, is wrong. Her reflexes should be slowing already. Maybe she forgot to take her medication when she came in.
If so, then she’s going to put up a fight. It could get messy.