He's Still The One. Cheryl Kushner
He chuckled. “Even back then you left a strong impression.”
He’d plopped down onto the window seat and was gazing into the yard next door where a pixielike red-haired girl, partially hidden by a gnarled oak tree, watched him from her bedroom window, a curious look on her face.
“I was just happy, thinking I now had someone new to play with,” she said dryly. “And was crushed you were a boy.”
She’d climbed onto one of the thick tree limbs and when their gazes connected, they played a silent game of stare down until she unexpectedly laughed, then disappeared from view.
“I panicked when I realized you’d fallen out of the tree.”
“My pride was bruised and battered,” she said.
“And you never shed a tear.”
“I was afraid to cry,” she told him. “If my parents had heard us, they’d know I’d climbed into the tree. I was certain the next time I saw that tree it would be as firewood.”
Then she laughed. “But the next morning you made a real impression when you lost control of Webster, and he crash-landed into my wading pool.”
“It was always a toss-up as to who owned who,” Ryan said, remembering the day his golden retriever puppy had plopped into the swimming pool. Eight-year-old Zoe, buried beneath twenty-plus pounds of dog, had cried, not because she was hurt, but because she was worried that Webster had been injured.
His expression darkened as he recalled another day, the one when he’d buried his parents in the cemetery around the corner and then came to defiantly hammer a For Sale sign, much like the one in the yard now, into the ground. Webster’s loud bark had accompanied each pound, until Zoe had come to the rescue of both man and dog, ordering him into the shower and taking Webster for a much needed walk.
From the doorway, he’d watched the two of them flash down the street, wishing he could always be with them, with her, with anyone, anywhere but in this house, alone.
A long silence stretched between them, until Zoe stood abruptly. “I’m sorry Truth or Dare got a bit out of hand.”
“Yeah.” He scrubbed his hands down his face. “It’s been a big-drama day for the both of us.”
Ryan watched as Zoe jogged across the yard and into the house. He slowly walked to the edge of the yard, stopping at the For Sale sign.
And for a moment, a brief moment, he wished he could turn back time.
Chapter Three
Ryan ran hard, the soles of his shoes slapping the pavement in tune with the irregular beat of his heart. Fast. He was running much too fast. His target managed to keep about one hundred yards ahead, just out of reach, then suddenly turned the corner. Ryan moderated his pace and by the time he reached the alley, he was breathing hard but steady. He drew his gun. There was no escape at the other end of the alley. He stepped forward, pivoted and aimed—into a suffocating deep-red mist. He coughed. Couldn’t breathe.
Something wet seeped through his canvas shoes, and he looked down to find himself standing in a puddle of blood. He couldn’t see his target. He couldn’t see Sean. But he saw a faint image of Zoe, heard her call his name, and watched as she helplessly reached out to him, her hands drenched in blood. What was she doing here? Her image dissolved into the mist. He heard a voice mock him. You’re too late. Too late.
A loud pop! jolted Ryan out of his chair. He’d closed his eyes for a moment and had been treated to a full-blown nightmare. He sprinted across his office to the lobby area of the police station he saw both his dispatcher and Jake standing in the entranceway shaking their heads.
Ryan went into his big-city detective mode. “What happened?” he demanded. “Anybody hurt? Why are you two standing there? Get outside and see what’s going on.”
Jake turned away from the door. “I know what’s going on. Henry Larkin’s car backfired again. Been ticketing him for more than a month now, telling him to get that muffler fixed.”
Ryan sucked in a deep breath, held it briefly before slowly exhaling. “Tell him the next time I hear or see his car I expect it to have a new muffler that sounds like a purring kitten, not like a round of fire from a sawed-off shotgun.”
He went back to his office and watched through the window as the eighty-year-old Henry Larkin waved in his direction and slowly drove around the square, his car halting, then backfiring every few hundred feet, a cloud of exhaust following its path.
He dropped into his chair, exhausted, which explained why he’d merely closed his eyes and drifted off. Sleep had been elusive last night. He’d risen with the sun. Taken a jog. Back at the apartment he’d stirred up the dust on the furniture. Still feeling restless, he’d showered, then driven around town aimlessly until he found himself at the police station. He’d decided to catch up on paperwork that was so boring, he’d fallen asleep in his chair.
He closed his eyes and called forth the memories of the first part of the dream. Minutes before sunrise he’d sat parked in front of the Russell house, waiting. Through the front window Zoe had seen him. She’d thrown open the front door, raced down the walkway and into his arms. They’d kissed. A kiss so light, so gentle, that it had him silently begging for more.
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