Angels Fall

ended up scrambling out of the tub, dripping and panting, to reopen the door.
    The front door was locked, she reminded herself, and the back of a chair under the handle. She was perfectly safe. But after she slid into the tub she had to sit up twice, to strain her body to see around the doorway into the living area. In case. To cock her ears for any sounds.
    Impatient with herself, she took two long, slow sips of wine.
    "Just stop it. Just relax. You used to love to do this, remember? Sit and soak in a bubble bath with a glass or wine and a book. It's time to stop scrubbing yourself down in three minutes flat and scrambling out of the shower as if Norman Bates were waiting to hack you to death.
    "And oh, for God's sake, shut up!"
    She closed her eyes, took another sip of wine. Then opened the book.
    The first line read:
     
    Some said that Jack Brewster had been digging his own grave for years, but as the shovel bit through the hard winter earth he was a little pissed off to have that comment taken literally.
     
    It made her smile, and hope that jack wasn't going up end up in the ground anytime soon.
    She read for fifteen minutes before nerves had her scooting up to peer into the living area again. And Recce marked it as a new record. Pleased with herself, she managed another ten before the growing jitters told her she'd had enough.
    Next time, she promised herself as she pulled the plug, she'd try for longer.
    She liked the book, and that was a relief, she decided. She set it down so she could slather the body cream that matched the bath foam on her skin. She'd get into bed with it, that's what she'd do. She'd use Brody's Jack Brewster to close out all the places her mind wanted to go.
    She wouldn't write in her journal, not tonight.
    Maybe she'd been upset with Sheriff Mardson when she left his office, but now that she was calmer she had to admit he was doing all he could possibly do.
    Whether he believed her or not, he hadn't been dismissive. Exactly.
    So, she was going to do her best to take at least one piece of his advice. She was going to put it aside, just for a few hours.
    She pulled on the flannel pants and T-shirt she wanted to sleep in, yanked the pins out of her hair. A small pot of tea, she thought, and an evening with a book.
    After putting the kettle on, she tried to drum up some enthusiasm for making a sandwich. Instead she toyed with a menu for the next night.
    Red meat, naturally. Maybe a little pot roast with a red wine sauce. She'd have to zip to the market as soon as she could manage a break. slap some marinade together. Easy enough, she thought as she started a list. New potatoes and carrots, fresh green beans if she could find them. A manly meal. Fat buttermilk biscuits.
    She could do some stuffed button mushrooms, if time allowed, for an appetizer. And polish it off with berries and cream. No. too girlie. Apple brown betty, maybe. Simple, traditional tood.
    Would she end tip in bed with him after? It wasn't a good idea; in fact it was a terrible idea. But, damn it, he'd definitely gotten her juices flowing. There was relief in knowing they could flow, and frustration in not being sure what she should or could do about it.
    She should wash her sheets, just in case. She only had the one set, so she wrote Laundry with a question mark on her list. She'd need to get a good red wine. Maybe brandy, too. And damn it, she not only didn't have any coffee, she had nothing to brew it in.
    She stepped back, pressed fingers to the center of her forehead where the headache was sneaking back. She should cancel. Obviously she was going to make herself crazy trying to create the perfect meal when Brody would probably be fine with a couple of buffalo burgers and steak fries.
    Smarter, better, she should cancel, pack her things, leave Joanie a note and get out of Angel's Fist. What reason was there to stay?
    A woman had been murdered, which was a good reason to leave the area. By now, or certainly soon, everyone in town would know she claimed to have seen murder done, and there wasn't a shred of evidence to support that claim.
    She didn't want people looking at her out of the corner of their eyes again. Like she was a bomb ticking toward the blast. Besides, she'd made progress here, and could leave without shame. She was back to cooking, she'd set up an apartment—such as it was. She'd lasted twenty-five minutes in the bathtub.
    She could feel her sexuality starting to simmer.
    Another session with Brody, she