Lila Harper could not escape the unsettling awareness that her husband, Jack, was palpably bored. His discontent manifested itself in the clamor he created, prowling about their modest beach cottage with an annoying restlessness that was far louder than the incessant roar of the waves crashing against the sea wall beneath their fogged windows. The relentless pounding of the tide, which usually provided her with a sense of comfort, now merely added to her irritation, especially as Jack bumped into chairs and thudded across the floor, feigning attempts to mend the malfunctioning radio they had rented.
Jack had promised that this would be a second honeymoon, a romantic respite from their chaotic lives. Yet it felt distressingly similar to their first, ill-fated attempt. "We're going to Long Beach," he had announced abruptly, barely two days into their Hollywood escape, where social engagements and the endless parade of friends and acquaintances had already begun. When Lila had voiced her doubts, remarking, "But Jack, nobody goes there!" he had continued with dismissive assurance. "You're mistaken. Thousands of people visit. The Chamber of Commerce would vouch for it. The Navy's stationed there."
Lila had known this assertion was far from the truth; a significant portion of the fleet was stationed in the Far East. Nevertheless, they had come to Long Beach, and Jack's dissatisfaction remained as palpable as ever.
Jack seemed to attribute their confinement to the quaint, old-fashioned cottage to her, rather than acknowledging that their stay had been far from ideal. He had initially been enthusiastic about their new location, particularly because Barjon Garth was also in Long Beach. Lila had harbored reservations about Garth's presence, given the recent concentration of foreign agents on the West Coast. It was to be expected that the head of X Division, the highest echelon of the government secret service, would be present. Despite Garth's past assistance to the X chief, which was now relegated to history, she felt uneasy about his proximity.
When Garth had departed for a fishing expedition on a luxurious yacht that morning, Lila had been relieved. Yet Jack remained, begrudgingly enduring the second honeymoon he had so eagerly anticipated. Lila's frustration with Jack grew as he expressed his disdain for their current situation, his boredom evident in his every gesture and remark.
At exactly eight o'clock, as marked by the garish clock adorned with a pained blue ocean, Jack announced, "I think I'll go out and buy a drink." Since seven o'clock, when Jack had laments for the twenty-third time, "God, what I'd give to be with Garth right now!" Lila had remained silent, her anger simmering beneath the surface, fueled by his incessant longing for past pleasures. The echo of their first honeymoon loomed large, as Jack had similarly pined for a place he missed during their Bermuda stay.
Her voice was sharp as she responded, "Don't tell me all those bottles are empty." Jack's flippant retort, "My God, you don't think a bottle's an artesian well, do you, baby?" only served to heighten her fury. Drinks and fishing seemed to be his sole interests, a sentiment that only deepened her irritation. As Jack walked by, she met his affectionate gesture with a cold turn of her cheek, saying tersely, "I'll go with you." His indifference to her response only added to her vexation.
Lila donned her white polo coat from the antiquated wardrobe, the faded cretonne of which resembled pink fish over worn black spots. She glanced at her reflection, ensuring her appearance was presentable, though her eyes betrayed her inner turmoil. She joined Jack as he locked the door with the key—a futile gesture given the cottage's vulnerability to even the slightest tampering.
As they descended the steps to the sidewalk garage, Lila remarked, "Better let me have it; I may not last as long as you." Jack's laughter, oblivious to the undercurrent of her anger, was met with Lila's resolute silence. She took the key from him with a terse "Oke, baby," determined to maintain her composure despite the storm brewing within her.
There was no plausible reason why the garage doors should shriek with such an insistent racket upon opening. Even the most severe rust could not account for such a jarring disturbance. It seemed to be part of the cottage's entire eerie ambiance.
As the headlights of an approaching car illuminated Jack, Lila remained concealed in the misty shadows at the base of the wooden steps. The girl who called out, "Jack," was clearly visible, though Lila could only hear the voice—a melodious sound imbued with the ethereal softness of a lullaby.
Jack turned with a touch of surprise and a hint of amusement. "What are you doing here, Eve?" he asked, moving casually to lean against the open car door.
The girl replied, "I thought Walker might be with you."
"I didn't know he was ashore," Jack responded.
The soft voice continued, "Yes, I wasn't at the hotel when he arrived. He left a note. I thought perhaps he had come by to see you. You're going out. I won't keep you."
"Just to the Mirage for a drink. Won't you join us?" Jack invited, not mentioning Lila's presence.
The girl declined. "No, thank you, Jack. I'd best return and wait for Walker. I don't want to miss him again." With that, the car drove away, and Lila stepped forward. "Who was that?"
"Evelyn Harlow," Jack replied.
"And who is Evelyn Harlow?" Lila asked, trying to mask her disquiet. She was not wholly successful.
"Mrs. Walker Harlow. He's with the Navy—Lieutenant abroad in Antarctica."
Lila said nothing more. Jack did not comment on the girl's beauty, though it was evident. Jack's female acquaintances were invariably of notable attractiveness, and if this one had not been at the Mirage Lounge, he might not have mentioned it so casually.
Lila hadad never questioned Jack about the dilapidated coupe they drove. It was a vehicle suited more to a high school sophomore's taste; its peeling black paint and red wire wheels were as disreputable as its noise. They could have had a choice of the luxurious cars in Oppy's Malibu garages.
Her disappointment clouded her vision, though she attributed it to the night mist now clinging to the windshield. Jack navigated the five short blocks to Belmont Shores, parking directly in front of his favored haunt, the Mirage Lounge. Lila had never been before, and the establishment's sinister, opium-den-like atmosphere was immediately off-putting. The dim greenish-amber lights cast an unflattering hue on everything, rendering the color of flesh grotesque, like something captured underwater at dusk.
"Shall we sit at a table?" Jack asked.
"I would prefer that," Lila replied.
Jack's gaze lingered on the high cushioned stools at the bar with a note of wistful regret as they chose a table near the entrance. He greeted the waiter warmly and asked, "How are you, Zhang?"
The waiter, whose name seemed at odds with his appearance, resembled more of a top segreant in the tank corps than a bartender. He responded with an affectionate, "How're you, Mr. Harper?"
It was clear that Jack had a familiar rapport with all the bar's staff. His charm was not solely due to the frequent drinks he ordered but rather to an inherent quality in him—a disarming blend of charm and carelessness. Lila, too, harbored adoration for Jack, but her feelings held little significance for him.
Zhang—or Nico, as he might have been known—moved with a swagger reminiscent of a prizefighter as he took their order for two Scotches and made his way to the bar. His cauliflower-free ears hinted that he was perhaps an old associate from Jack's newspaper days, a likely draw for Jack's frequent visits to the Mirage Lounge. Lila could almost hear the nostalgic conversations of old Prohibition days, a reminder of Tony's and their more carefree past. But tonight, her fury remained unassuaged. She sat rigidly, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light.
The room was nearly empty. Two couples, who looked as though they hailed from Kansas or Iowa, were engrossed in an animated conversation at one table. In the far corner, two men were absorbed in their drinking. At the bar, alone on a stool, sat a blonde girl, who appeared to have been there for an inordinate amount of time. Slumped forward with her head resting on the bar, she wore the typical California maroon maxi dress, which, in the dim light, took on a sickly green-gray hue, much like Lila's own attire. Her face remained obscured.
Zhang delivered the drinks with practiced ease. "How's everything, Mr. Harper?" he inquired.
"Can't complain. And you?" Jack replied.
"All's well on my end," Zhang answered, his voice carrying a rough edge, as if seasoned by a touch of the prizefighter's rasp. "Has Walker been in tonight?"
"Not tonight, Mr. Harper. His wife was here earlier," Zhang informed him.
Lila, seeking to cut off the conversation, interjected frostily, "May I have a cigarette, Jack?" She had little interest in hearing more about Evelyn.
Zhang—whose demeanor hinted at an understanding of wives on the warpath—departed with a look of knowing amusement. It did nothing to ease Lila's frustration. Her mood had shifted from disappointment to a desire to shatter things.
Across the room, a man rising from a distant table exuded the proper gentlemanly air. In the dim light, his brown jacket was impeccably cut, and he hit lighter-colored slacks tailored with deliberate nonchalance. Lila squinted, recognizing something familiar about his neatly cropped brown curls and his assured stride. When he turned his head, the mustached profile confirmed her suspicion.
"Jack, it's Dexter Reed!" Lila exclaimed in sudden delight. It was no wonder she hadn't recognized him immediately; Dexter did not frequent places like this, preferring the company of influential men and glamorous women.
"Pretend you don't know him," Jack muttered, then groaned, "Oh, my God," as Dexter either noticed them or heard her exclamation. Dexter approached, adjusting his ascot with an air of refinement. Jack mumbled again, "See you later, darling," and began to walk away toward the bar, leaving Lila's protest hanging in the air. Her anger flared; Jack's disregard for Dexter's refined manners and dignified attire—compared to his own scruffy appearance—was infuriating.
Dexter greeted Lila with a broad smile. "Lila, what a pleasant surprise. I thought you were in New York. Where's Jack off to?"
She took his hand warmly. "Wonderful to see you, Dexter. It's been far too long." She forced a laugh, masking her irritation. "You know Jack's thirst. He'll be back." Though she had no real assurance he would return, she had to maintain a pretense of civility.
Dexter, taken aback, inquired, "But what brings you to Long Beach? I thought you were the star designer of the studios. I would have expected to see you at movie spots, not here."
Lila responded matter-of-factly, "Jack wanted to come." She added, "We're married again, you know." He probably hadn't heard; he had known them during their initial attempt at marriage, and she had only seen him occasionally during their four-year separation.
"Congratulations?" Dexter grinned.
Lila offered no reply. Her gaze was fixed on the bar, where the blonde girl had moved to a stool next to Jack. He was lighting her cigarette. The girl's face remained hidden.
Dexter followed her gaze. "Who is she?"
"I don't know," Lila admitted, turning back to Dexter. She took a sip of her insipid drink, unable to resist glancing once more at Jack and the blonde. Her curiosity was all-consuming, as if she were compelled to witness every detail.
The bartender's voice cut through the murmur of the room. "I'm sorry, I can't serve her another drink."
Jack's tone was deceptively mild as he responded, "I said I'd buy the lady another drink." His words carried clearly in the quiet space.
The bartender repeated firmly, "She can't have any more."
"No?" Jack's hand rested on the girl's arm. "Come on, sweetheart. I know where we can get another."
Lila's eyes widened in disbelief as she saw Jack help the girl away from the bar, brushing past Zhang's attempts at conversation, and start across the room with her. The blonde clutched a short coat, holding it with her free hand. Jack did not stop at Lila's table but slowed momentarily to wink at her before heading out the door.
Dexter observed with a knowing smile. "Same old Jack," he commented, then noticed Lila's distress. "I'm sorry, Lila. You'll know he'll be back soon. Jack's always so impetuous. He'll take her home and return right away."
She turned her gaze away from him. "I won't be staying here."
Dexter offered, "May I drive you home?" His watch gleamed like polished copper. "I'd suggest something more pleasant, but I'm already late for an engagement."
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
"No, Dexter, thank you. It's just a short walk."
She refused Dexter's offer, unwilling to make a spectacle of herself in front of Jack's acquaintances. She preferred to wait until she could leave alone without anyone observing her possibly tearful eyes. The idea of pretending to be a casual, modern wife, even for a few blocks, was unbearable—she wanted to howl and kick her heels in frustration.
"Tell Jack I'll drop by tomorrow. I'm staying at the Villa Riviera. Give him a call," Dexter said as he made his exit.
Lila watched him disappear behind the artistic saloon doors. The lone remaining drinker at Dexter's former table finished his drink and prepared to leave. He paused before crossing the door, and her eyes widened when he approached her table. She did not recognize him.
"Mrs. Harper, I am Major Wellington," he introduced himself curtly.
He resembled the many British men she had encountered in London and across Europe in better times: stocky, red-faced, with a sand-colored bristle mustache beginning to gray and hair receding in the same manner. Yet his expression was colder, almost brutal. Instinctively, she felt a pang of unease. He had no reason to know who she was, and Dexter had not mentioned her to him.
Lila acknowledged the introduction with equal brevity.
Major Wellington stood over her with disinterest, his eyes cold and detached. "I shall escort you home, Mrs. Harper."
Her anger flared at this intrusion, the final straw in a day of relentless irritations. She stood abruptly, her voice sharp with more indignation than hauteur. "You will not escort me home. I am not accustomed to being escorted by strangers. Goodnight, Major Wellington." She walked out of the bar, her stride resolute, wishing the swinging doors could punctuate her departure.
Of course, Jack had taken both the car and his new companion. Lila, uneasy walking alone after dark, dreaded the final two blocks from the well-lit main street to their secluded cottage. On one side lay the desolate night beach, and on the other, the drawn blinds of white apartments. She kept to the center of the pavement.
It was probably just her nerves, but she could have sworn she heard footsteps matching her own. She could look over her shoulder to confirm, but she did not. As she increased her pace, she heard the echoing footsteps quicken. She began to walk briskly, hoping whoever it was might overtake her rather than follow. But the footsteps persisted in their steady rhythm. Without meaning to, her gaze shifted to the bay, where she saw the shadow of a man moving alarmingly close to her own. Her steps grew more frantic as she climbed the long stairway to her front door, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
The footsteps ceased abruptly as she reached the top of the stairs. She stood there, breathless and trembling.
A voice, as dispassionate as stones cast into the cold Pacific, spoke, "I would have preferred to escort you home, Mrs. Harper."
She turned slowly, her fear now palpable. There were no neighbors to hear her cries for help. The sea wall extended on one side, and the other side of the house was equally empty. The nearby cottage was unoccupied. She faced the top of the steps, hoping he would not advance further, hoping she could keep him at bay. Finding her voice, she demanded, "What do you want? How did you know I was Mrs. Harper?"
"Mr. Reed informed me of your identity," he replied. This was a lie; Dexter had only learned of her status as Jack's wife that evening.
Her heart pounded painfully. "Are you a friend of Dexter's?"
"I knew him in Washington. I wasn't aware he was on the West Coast until I encountered him tonight. I was pleased to find him here and equally pleased to discover that Jack Harper was in town."
"You know my husband?" she inquired, though it was not surprising. Jack had an uncanny ability to attract the most astonishing characters.
"No," Wellington said. "I wish to meet him."
"I'm sorry, Major Wellington, but Jack isn't here. I don't know when he will return. If you would call another time, Her dismissal was clear, but he remained unyielding. His eyes remained cold, devoid of any expression as they met hers.
He said, "I assume Mr. Harper is here for the same reasons as Mr. Reed."
Lila seized the opportunity to speak firmly. "You're mistaken, Major Wellington. My husband is here on his honeymoon. I seriously doubt Dexter's presence in Long Beach is for the same purpose." She even managed a smile, finding it amusing that the bachelor Dexter would remain unentangled by matrimony.
Wellington paused. "Mr. Harper is not here seeking Irvin Bernard?"
Her surprise was evident. "Who?"
"Irvin Bernard. Surprisingly, you know him?"
"I've never heard of him," Lila asserted. "I am quite certain I've never encountered that name before."
"Jack Harper has heard of him," the Major insisted.
"Possibly," Lila said, though she had no knowledge of many of Jack's eccentric acquaintances.
"Jack Harper knows him. Bernard has been production director for the West Coast division of the broadcasting company."
She recalled the name but had never met Bernard. Jack hadn't even reached out to him in Hollywood. Why would Jack be looking for him here? Her confusion must have been evident.
Major Wellington continued, "Bernard disappeared two weeks ago Monday." He elaborated before she could protest: "It hasn't been reported in the papers. The studio wanted to avoid publicity until they were sure it wasn't a voluntary disappearance. However, now that so much time has passed without a trace, his colleagues are growing anxious." His mouth curled with disdain. "The trail has grown cold."
She responded frostily, "What does this have to do with my husband?"
Ignoring her irritation, Major Wellington said, "I was sure Jack Harper came here to track down his friend, just as Mr. Reed did."
Gathering her resolve, she asked, "What's it to you?"
"Mr. Bernard was about to enter into a partnership with me. The contracts are prepared, but I can't proceed until he's found. My backers are growing impatient."
It sounded benign enough, but she had no desire for Jack to be involved in anything connected to this stern-faced man. In fact, she didn't want Jack engaged in anything at all right now—this was supposed to be their honeymoon.
With forced cheerfulness, she said, "Well, you must have made a mistake, Major Wellington." Her laugh was hollow. "Jack isn't here for any such reason. He hasn't mentioned Irvin Bernard at all. I suggest you take your concerns to the police."
He accepted her dismissal this time. "The police have already been informed," he said, turning to leave. "Tell your husband I stopped by and that I'd like to see him. About the letter."
"What letter?" She thought he must be mad, but he was already on his way out.
"The letter Bernard sent him before he disappeared."
Jack hadn't mentioned any letters. It was possible there was one; they rarely pried into each other's mail.
"I'm at Catalina, actually off Catalina, on the Velvet Wings. I can't delay any longer—I have guests waiting. You will tell your husband."
She remained silent. She had no interest in passing on this information to Jack. It would be just like him to get involved in a wild goose chase like this to relieve his boredom. And even now that Major Wellington had proven himself legitimate, she disliked him. She called after him, "If you want to see Jack again, please don't follow me. I don't appreciate it."
He apologized without shifting a muscle in his face. "I wanted to ensure I could speak with you tonight. You made it clear that you did not wish to be escorted."
She scowled at his retreating figure, then fumbled for her key—a cheap thing she had bought at the five-and-dime. She rattled it into the lock. She wasn't frightened; she was simply cold from standing so long in the damp night.
After locking the door behind her, she unlocked it again; Jack didn't have a key. It would serve him right to be locked out, but she didn't really want that. She wanted him to be with her. She left the living-room light on, went into the bedroom, and undressed. She wasn't afraid; there was nothing to be afraid of. The echoing footsteps had been nothing more than her own nerves.
She slipped into a pink-sprigged dimity nightdress that made her look like a Kate Greenaway illustration. In truth, there was no point in looking like anything other than a neglected wife. She turned off the bedroom light, climbed into bed, and buried her face in his pillow.
A fine honeymoon—going to bed alone.
⋅ ⋅ ⋅
"Are you awake?"
The sound stirred her. He was standing by the bed, his hands stuffed into his pockets, rattling something. But his expression was serious, not the least bit cheerful. The dim light from the living room cast shadows here, highlighting his troubled frown. A pang of unwarranted fear prickled her heart.
"Yes, I'm awake." She shifted to make room for him on the bed. He sat on the edge and pulled his hand from his pocket. The rattling sound had come from a handful of shells—bullets meant for a revolver, not the kind found on the beach.
"Jack!" She gasped, moving closer to him. "Jack—"
He said, "Do you want to know what happened?"
"Yes, Jack—" She tried to steady her voice, though it quivered slightly. There was no reason to panic; he wasn't in danger here on their vacation in Long Beach. Not with Garth safely away. She spoke calmly: "First, give me a cigarette."
He lit one for each of them and began recounting the night's events. She listened, imagining the scene as he described it.
He had helped the girl into an old coupe, saying cheerily, "Let's go somewhere where we won't be insulted. How does that sound?"
She'd been drinking, though not drunk, and spoke in a flat tone, as if he were a cab driver. "I want to go to Alan's Seaside Catch."
"Okay," he had replied, starting the noisy engine. "Where is it?"
"Down Seal Beach Way. I'll show you."
They drove across the bridge, down the San Diego highway. He tried to make conversation, but she was silent. Jack soon wanted another drink, as was his habit. Alan's Seaside Catch hadn't appeared yet, but there were other places nearby. He slowed down at one, saying, "Let's have a drink before we continue. What do you say?"
"All right," she had said.
It was then that her coat fell to the floor, making more noise than a light green fleece should. She quickly picked it up and got out of the car, and so did Jack. He didn't understand what was happening, and, being Jack, he wasn't about to let her go until he did. But she wasn't fleeing; she went into the small establishment, took a seat in the second booth, and he sat across from her.
He ordered two beers and eyed the girl, demanding, "Now, what's this all about?" He suspected she might be involved in something criminal. She seemed to be in a daze, which didn't faze Jack—he was never afraid, even when he should have been. That was why he got entangled in serious troubles—the kind that whispered death.
She showed some resolve now, saying, "I told you to skip it."
"I'm not skipping it." He waited until the beers were served and paid for, then said, leaning back with a casual air, "It's a long walk back to town, sister. Either you tell me what's going on, or you'll be spending the night right here in this dump."
She moistened her lips, glanced at the opposite booth, and quietly revealed the gun hidden in her coat pocket. "I'm going to end it all tonight. But I'm not going alone."
"Oh no, you're not," Jack said firmly. "I don't care if you blow yourself up or how many you take with you, but you're not doing it tonight. Too many people have seen you with me. I'm here on my honeymoon, and I can't be bothered by inquests and foolish testimony. Hand me the gun."
They argued while drinking their beers. The girl and Jack were both stubborn. She refused to relinquish the gun, and he wouldn't drive her to Alan's until she did. He could have taken it by force, but he was wary that she might use it on him instead.
Finally, he reached a compromise. "I can't stay here all night. I have a wife waiting for me."
"You actually remembered me?" she asked, though her tone was not acerbic. She clung tightly to his hand, pressing close.
He kissed the top of her head. "I never forget you, kitten."
He told the girl, "I'll take you back to town if you let me hold onto the gun until we get there. Then I'll return it to you, and you can find someone else to drive you to Alan's."
She agreed. "I'm going to powder my nose first." She wobbled slightly as she stood.
He waited for her return. When she did, she wore her coat, and Jack could see the gun was no longer in her pocket.
He demanded, "What did you do with it?"
"I flushed it down the toilet," she said.
That angered him; perhaps it was the beers, but he was furious. "I may look like a fool, but that's scientifically impossible."
He marched into the women's room without hesitation. He found the gun hidden beneath paper towels in the wastebasket. He didn't understand why she'd hidden it or what she hoped to gain, but he unloaded the gun, pocketed the shells, and put the gun in his coat pocket.
She was waiting by the door when he returned, her demeanor subdued. "Will you give it back to me? I was afraid you wouldn't, so I hid it. I need it."
They went out of the car. He asked, "So you can kill yourself and some rats?"
"It's none of your business," she replied, and she remained silent for the ride back.
Jack dropped her off where she directed on Ocean Boulevard, handed her the gun, and said, "Good night," before driving away, leaving her on the sidewalk.
"Then I came home to you, baby," he said.
That was Jack's story.
⋅ ⋅ ⋅
Lila breathed deeply, trying to calm herself.
Jack stood up, yawned, and said, "Mind the light?" He turned it on, tossed the shells onto the bureau, and began unbuttoning his shirt.
She asked blankly, "But what was all that about, darling?"
"Damned if I know," he replied, yawning again. "Screwiest performance I've ever seen."
Lila wondered, "What was her name?"
"She wouldn't tell me."
She shook her head hopelessly. "Was she pretty?"
"Might have been in the Congo. I've seen too many people like her lately. Blondes like that are a dime a dozen in Hollywood. No distinguishing features—no mole or anything."
Lila shook her head again, puzzled. "Why do you do these silly things, Jack? Why did you go out with her?"
He laughed. "I don't know. Curiosity, I guess. Old newsy instict. I couldn't figure out why Paulie refused to serve her. Now I know—it was because of the gun."
She said soberly, "One day you're going to get yourself into serious trouble."
"It won't be the first time, angel face."
Jack creaked down onto the bed to untie his shoes. "What did you fancy friend Dexter want? What's he doing here?"
"He's your friend, not mine," she said. "I don't know. He's coming by tomorrow. And, Jack, you have to be on your best behavior. After all, he is your friend."
Jack replied sleepily, "I'll hide first. I'll dig a hole to China. I'll lie about my age and enlist. I'll—"
"Jack!" She cut in sharply, sitting bolt upright.
He turned to put an arm around her. "Aw, I'll be good, honey."
But it wasn't that. It was a sudden, rational fear. "Jack, if she were to do anything—your fingerprints would be all over that gun!"
Jack's voice was disinterested. "I thought of that. But I figured it's too late for her to get any more shells tonight. And even if she did, she'd need someone else to drive her out to that seafood place. Someone would be seen with her later than me—" The phone in the living room began ringing insistently. Jack muttered, "What the hell—" and padded sock-footed to answer it.
Lila remained upright in bed, troubled. Jack had a knack for landing himself in trouble. She couldn't let him risk it again, especially after the close call tonight. Tomorrow, she would insist they leave this place and return to the more civilized Hollywood. She had deliberately avoided mentioning Major Wellington. Jack had conjured enough trouble tonight without adding a missing executive into the mix.
She waited, trying to remain calm while Jack handled the phone. He used his newspaper voice, and she couldn't hear what he was saying. When he returned, whistling, his expression was not pleased. He picked up his shirt from the bureau and started buttoning it again.
"Jack—" she cried. "What—"
"Simmer down," he said, coming over to the bed and gently pushing her onto the pillow with his right hand, while his left hand continued to fasten buttons. "Got to go out for a bit."
"Why, Jack?" She demanded, unwilling to be treated like a child without an explanation.
He grinned. "If you must know, there's a guy coming to town who won't be happy until he sells me a dog." The grin faded. "Darling, it has nothing to do with the blonde business, I assure you. I'll be back in an hour."
He kissed her again and left. He hadn't mentioned whether it had anything to do with the frozen Major Wellington or the missing executive, Irvin Bernard. Lila couldn't ask him directly; she couldn't introduce those names until she was sure they were relevant.
⋅ ⋅ ⋅
She tried to sleep, but the ocean was thundering so loudly that it was hard to hear anything else, like a door opening or footsteps that didn't belong in their beach cottage.
She listened intently until she was sure someone had entered the next room quietly. She hesitated, "Jack—" The bed clanked as she moved. There was a deeper silence followed by a faint rustle. A door clicked.
She didn't dare move. There was no point in pretending she wasn't scared now; she huddled under the covers, counting not sheep but the endless, relentless footsteps that seemed to be coming after her. Who had entered the cottage stealthily and left just as quietly? She couldn't fathom why anyone would be following her; she hadn't done anything to anyone.