Rachel Goddard 01 - The Heat of the Moon

when I was hanging my lab coat in my staff lounge locker. I turned and found him behind me. I tried to step around him, but he grasped my arm and wouldn’t let go.
    “Isn’t it about time you let me explain?”
    “Let go of me. You’re acting like a bully.”
    I saw he was tempted to tell me what I was acting like, but instead he said, “I’ll let go if you’ll promise to listen.”
    I was close enough to catch the scent of his skin, that wonderful smell that had enveloped me when we made love. Meeting his gaze briefly, I saw nothing but an honest appeal. I nodded, and he released my arm.
    “Okay,” he said. “First, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the marriage—”
    “Your marriage.”
    He drew in a breath. “My marriage. I was twenty-three, and it lasted a little over a year, in legal terms, but we only lived together a few months. We were miserable as hell the whole time. It was a mistake from the start, and we both knew it. I haven’t seen her since the divorce.”
    This sounded well-rehearsed. I wondered how many times he’d said it over in his head. Leaning back against my locker for support, I asked, “Did you have—Is there a child?”
    He took too long to answer. My stomach clenched into a painful knot as he swiped his hair off his forehead and stared at the floor.
    “She—We had a baby.” Luke’s voice was low and flat. “He was premature and he died when he was a week old.” He glanced at me, then away. “The baby was the only reason we got married in the first place. Pure stupidity on my part. I hardly knew the girl.”
    And you don’t know me, I thought. But you’ve already told me you love me. Am I another impulsive mistake? Did you tell her you loved her too?
    “Rachel. Say something.”
    I shook my head. I had nothing to say.
    “Aw, come on, Rachel. Are you going to let this wreck everything?” He moved closer.
    I stepped aside. “Don’t pressure me.”
    “Oh, man, your mother really did a number on us, didn’t she? I’ve got to admire her technique.”
    I bristled. “If you think insulting my mother’s the way to win me over—”
    “You’re a different person when you’re around her, you know that?” 
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But I knew well enough.
    “She’s got you cowed. She’s got you under her thumb, and she doesn’t want some man coming around threatening her control.”
    “Now you’re insulting me.”
    He gripped my arm again. “Rachel, I love you, I think we could be happy together—”
    “We don’t even know each other.” I yanked my arm loose. “Just leave me alone.”
    I bolted, got out of the building and into my car, but I was in too much turmoil to go home, where I would have to face the truth of what he’d said. I drove around side streets for a long time, avoiding rush hour traffic on the main roads, barely noticing where I was. Every few minutes my cell phone bleeped inside my shoulderbag, but I ignored it.
    I told myself that if I patched things up with Luke and continued the relationship, he’d force me to choose between him and Mother. I couldn’t do that. Mother and Michelle were all I’d ever had, my only family. I wanted Luke desperately, the sight of him and the sound of his voice at work every day tormented me, but my doubts about him and his hostility to Mother would always come between us.
    I told myself I couldn’t trust him, that he might have other secrets that would hurt and shock me. I didn’t know what could be worse, though, than hiding a marriage and child. I was jealous of that nameless, faceless woman who’d been his wife, had his baby. His dead son. His dead marriage. Had he meant to keep it from me forever?
    Finally I told myself that I was nothing but a fraud. Deep under the layers of hurt and blame lay a kernel of simple truth: I was grateful that Mother had uncovered an excuse for me to retreat from Luke’s intensity, his certainty that we belonged together. He overwhelmed me with all that he wanted to give and expected in return.
    But I had no right to hold his secrets against him. God knew I had plenty of secrets of my own.

Chapter Ten
    Even as I pored over a book on locks, learning about pins and cylinders and levers, even as I assembled what I imagined to be adequate lock-picking tools, I felt a little sick about what I was planning to do. But that didn’t stop me.
    If Mother had kept a file on my childhood problems, it might contain all the information she