Latimer's Law. Mel Sterling
what would the neighbors think if they saw my arms? I’m not ready for those kinds of questions. I’ll never be ready for those kinds of questions. If only Marsh wouldn’t grip so hard. Abby pulled herself away from the dismaying flicker of memories. “I don’t think I should talk without someone else here. A cop, or a lawyer. Someone.”
“Your husband, maybe?” His fingers flicked Gary’s license so that it spun toward her over the tabletop. She watched Gary’s cheerful face come to a smiling stop. Who ever looked happy in their driver’s license picture? Everyone else looked startled or stoned or fat, but Gary just looked like Gary, ordinary and plain until he smiled. “Is he going to meet you here, maybe?”
“He’s dead.” Why she felt compelled to say that much, Abby didn’t know. She wedged her tongue between her teeth to remind herself to keep quiet. Sweat trickled down her face and the ridge of her spine.
“That explains why you’re carrying a man’s wallet and license.” He gestured with his left hand, and the dog sat. Abby turned to look at it, expecting to see wild eyes and froth at its lips, and instead was startled by the lolling tongue as the dog panted in the day’s glaring, humid heat. The shepherd looked as if he was grinning. He looked between Abby and the man continually, alert to each slight movement.
With the dog’s muzzle away from her arm, Abby was able to relax the slightest bit. It was clear the dog would obey its master. She gained an odd respect for the man. He controlled the dog without force—or, rather, with only the force of his will. It was a concept she hadn’t thought about for months. All men had been painted with Marsh’s brush, despite the years spent basking in Gary’s gentle love. One bad apple.
“Wait here. Don’t try to run. My dog will stop you.” The man went to the pickup and opened the passenger door, reaching in for the bag of groceries. He brought the sack to the table and started taking items out of it one by one. When he was finished, he surveyed the goods before him. The orange juice. Potato chips. Two cans of chili. A half gallon of milk. Grape jelly for Rosemary’s sandwiches. Emergency rations because she hadn’t had a chance to ask Marsh to drive her to the supermarket last evening.
Of course she hadn’t. She’d been busy doing other things. Busy collecting the latest set of bruises on her arms, and elsewhere. Busy taking pills to knock back the pain. Busy wondering if this time he’d slip and mark her face. Her stomach clenched; how long would it be before Marsh came looking for her? Had he called the cops because he couldn’t leave the day care while the clients were there? Or was he simply sitting, wondering what had happened to her, his anger growing? Had he fed the clients lunch?
Or...maybe...Marsh was afraid. Afraid she’d gone to the hospital or the cops at last. She hoped he was afraid, as terrified as she herself every time she saw the edges of his nostrils whiten or his hand reaching for her, or, what was worse, the look in his eye that signaled something less painful but more humiliating. She could picture him now, in one of his button-down short-sleeve shirts that brought out the green in his hazel eyes, watching her from where he sat in the living room while she folded his clothes—
“Did you steal these groceries? Was that why you were running away, because you were afraid someone at the store would catch you? Hardly seems worth the trouble for twenty bucks in junk food.”
“I’m not a thief!” Abby flared, realizing how stupid that sounded when his eyebrows shot up and he looked at her with a gaze of blue disbelief and a twisted smirk on his well-cut mouth.
“Surely you’re joking.”
Abby bit her lip, mystified. Unless her perceptions had been skewed by the time spent with Marsh, the man was honestly amused. He was angry, too, but about the truck and not her responses. “I mean...I...had reasons why I...”
“Why you took my truck?” He came around the table and loomed over her. Abby shrank away as far as she could without losing her balance. It wasn’t easy with her hands behind her back. “Come on, Abigail. Just give me the truth and this will go better for you. Why’d you steal my truck?”
“I’m sorry about that. Really, I am. It was a mistake, that’s all. An error in judgment.” She could hear herself babbling, and sought to divert him. “You’re bleeding, did you know?”
“Your fault.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
He tilted his head and studied her for a long moment. “You know, Abigail, I believe you are.”
* * *
Marshall McMurray looked at his watch for the fifth time. What was taking Abigail so long? She hadn’t managed to get herself to the grocery store last night, though she knew they needed several basic things to be able to serve the clients lunch. But even if she’d decided to buy more than the few critical items on the list Marsh had jotted, she should have come home from the corner store by now. It was only a few blocks away.
Marsh’s gaze roved the large living room, where most of the people Abigail and Gary took into their home each day were playing board games. Rosemary, who should have been seated with Stephen playing checkers, was roaming the room looking for the television remote, which Marsh had in his pocket. She loved to get possession of the remote and blast the volume, hooting with excited glee when the others moaned in reaction. Abigail let her have it far too often. Marsh saw no need for such indulgence, not when it resulted in only more noise and agitation for the other people. He was in charge now; Gary was gone.
Marsh missed his brother, but he knew he was better suited to Abigail than Gary had been. Gary had always catered to Abigail’s whims, which meant the business floundered. Small businesses, and women, required steady direction and a firm hand on the tiller. No wonder the adult day care hadn’t been delivering much more than a basic living for his brother and his brother’s wife. Together Marsh and Abigail would fix that, though. It wasn’t Marsh’s first choice for a living, but it was a start.
All the clients seemed quiet enough, but Marsh knew they’d be asking for Abigail before too much longer.
He went to the window and pulled aside the curtain that shielded the clients from the nosy stares of passersby and blocked some of the summer heat. The placement of the window didn’t give him much of a view to the street, but Abigail wasn’t walking up the driveway.
Behind Marsh, someone was slapping wet clay at the art table. Over and over. The flat sound reminded Marsh of the noise of skin on skin, the noise of two bodies in bed. And just like that, his brain revealed the explanation, the reason why Abigail hadn’t come home yet.
She was meeting someone else.
His gut knotted. His fingers knotted in the fabric of the curtain, and he yanked it closed, sending the wooden rings rattling along the rod. Behind him the slapping continued. His fists wanted to knot, too.
She was probably sleeping with the man even now, leaving Marsh to deal with everything by himself, when she knew perfectly well state regulations required a minimum caregiver-to-patient ratio. She knew they were violating those very regulations, with only Marsh at hand to tend her clients. She knew it was nearly lunchtime when she left. She knew they’d be getting agitated, hungry and bored.
She’d told her clients she’d be right back.
Abigail had lied. Bald-faced lied. Lied to him.
Marsh turned from the window, glaring at Joe, the middle-aged man with pimples, who was slapping the clay mindlessly while he rocked back and forth in his chair, his eyes roving back and forth at high speed. Any moment now Joe would start moaning, overstimulated by whatever was going wrong in his neurons.
Abigail had left Marsh to cope with her pack of misfits, while she was off doing God knew what, probably with the idiot clerk at the store, maybe in the back room, maybe behind the store, up against the concrete wall where she could be seen from any passing car—
Rosemary bounced up to Marsh. “Lunchtime!”
Marsh gritted his teeth. “That’s right. Almost lunchtime, as soon as Abigail comes back.”
“I’m