Moonlight on Butternut Lake (25 page)

A little?
Was he serious? If this was
a little
pleasure, what was Reid's idea of
a lot
of pleasure? Because right now her pleasure was so intense that she was about to spontaneously combust. With Reid, it was all about pleasure.
Her
pleasure. He wasn't asking anything of her. Anything at all. Except that she feel the exquisite sensations he was coaxing from her body.

He had worked her bathing suit down around her waist, and done it so seamlessly that the only reason she noticed it now was that the evening breeze, blowing in through the open kitchen windows, felt suddenly cool on her bare skin. And his fingertips glided over that skin with a featherlike lightness, from her collarbone, down between her breasts and all the way to her navel. His other hand was busy, too. The man was clearly not deterred by the fact that he was on crutches, she realized. He was simply letting his underarms bear the bulk of his weight so that both his hands were free. Which was why he was able to use that other hand to gently stroke the inside of her thighs, a soft, insistent stroke that would have been mesmerizing if it wasn't also so electrifying.

Another moan escaped her, and she wavered then, for one second, on the edge of surrender. It would be so sweet, so very sweet, to let them finish what they'd started. But even as she was thinking this, she saw an image in her mind of her wedding
ring, lying on the bottom of the lake. It didn't look the way it had when she'd thrown it in at the beginning of the summer. It wasn't bright and shiny anymore. It was slightly tarnished, coated with algae, and partially buried in the soft muck of the lakebed. But there it was. No less real for all that. And as soon as she saw it in her mind, she untangled herself from Reid.

“I'm sorry,” she said, trying to catch her breath and reflexively folding her arms over her bare breasts, whose pale skin seemed to be glowing faintly in the near darkness. “I can't do this,” she mumbled as she clumsily yanked at her bathing suit straps and reached for her crumpled cover-up on the floor. She couldn't help but feel faintly ridiculous now. Only one of them, after all, was partly undressed.

But Reid, seeing how self-conscious she'd become, shook his head. “Mila, no. Don't ever be embarrassed by the way you look. You are so beautiful. Every single inch of you is so beautiful.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, because she could see by the expression on his face that he actually believed what he was saying. He reached out and gently ran a finger down the side of her face and kissed her so tenderly it made her heart ache. “I just . . . I just want to love you,” he said then. “Please, let me love you, Mila.”

But as soon as she heard those words, she felt her eyes tear up. “I'm sorry,” she said again, and, pulling away from him, she hurried out of the kitchen before real tears started. And she made it all the way down the hallway, into her bedroom, and under the covers of her bed before they came. Really came. She buried her face in the pillow and tried to cry quietly.

She hadn't cried since the first night she'd arrived at the cabin. And that night, she'd cried for different reasons. She'd cried because she was alone, and afraid, and bereft of hope. She'd cried, too, because she was married to an abusive man, and she saw no
way, legally, at least, out of her marriage to him. Tonight, she was crying because she knew now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was in love with a man, a man with whom she could have no real future, not when she knew she would have to spend the rest of her life on the move, trying to stay one step ahead of a man who wouldn't rest until he'd found her. And she was crying because the words Reid had said to her,
Let me love you, Mila,
were the kindest, loveliest, and most beautiful words anyone had ever said to her.

A
fter Mila was done crying, she felt both curiously empty, and completely exhausted, so exhausted, in fact, that she could barely muster the energy to change into her nightgown, brush her teeth, and crawl back under her covers. But no sooner had she fallen asleep than something dragged her, violently, awake.
What is that?
she thought, sitting up in bed, her heart pounding, her covers thrown off, her feet already on the floor. What
is
that noise
?
But she knew. She'd never heard it before, but as its shrill electronic pulse filled the cabin, she realized that she'd been waiting—no, she'd been
expecting
—to hear it all summer. It was the alarm, and something, or someone, had tripped it.

“
Brandon,
” she whispered into the darkness, and the simple act of saying his name frightened her more than the alarm's incessant blaring. Her next thought, though, wasn't of Brandon, or even of herself. It was of Reid.
Oh, my God, Reid. No!
She scrambled out of bed and tore down the hallway to his room, but when she got there, she found an oddly disorienting scene. The door was open, the lights were on, and Reid was out of bed, leaning on his crutches and holding his iPad in his hands and
typing something onto it. He looked mildly annoyed, but otherwise, perfectly calm.

“Mila?” he said, right as the alarm stopped shrieking. “What's wrong?”

“What's wrong?” she repeated, holding on to the doorjamb to steady herself. Her breath was coming so fast it was hard for her to talk. “Reid, the alarm . . . It woke me up . . . why'd it stop?”

“I turned it off,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, her legs rubbery beneath her.

“Because if it goes off for more than forty seconds, the security company calls the police.”

“But, Reid, they
should
call the police,” Mila said. “Call them back. Right now.
Please.
Or better yet, call 911.”

Reid put the iPad down on his dresser and came over to her. He looked worried. But not about the alarm. About her. “Mila, it's okay,” he said, his eyes finding hers. “It was a false alarm. Nobody broke in, if that's what you're worried about.”

“How, how could you know that?” Mila asked, and she heard an edge of hysteria in her own voice.

“I know that because the sensor that went off tonight—it's for one of the basement windows—has already malfunctioned twice. Both times, though, were before you got here. The first time, the police came out. But it was nothing, Mila. It was a waste of their time. The security company was supposed to send a tech out to replace the sensor, but they never did. I'm sorry. I should have told you about—”

“But, Reid, what if it's . . . what if it's
not
a faulty sensor,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What if someone's actually here?”
What if Brandon is actually here?
she wondered.
Watching them? Listening to them?
She glanced down the shadowy
hallway. It was empty but it still seemed ominous. She shut Reid's bedroom door, and locked it, then dragged a desk chair over and wedged it under the doorknob. A lot of good any of that would do them if Brandon was actually here, she thought, her heart still beating wildly. But it seemed better, somehow, than doing nothing at all.

Reid, who'd watched her do all this in silence, now put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Mila, look at me,” he said, when her eyes wandered back to the door. “It's okay. There's nobody here but us. It's a faulty sensor. And, honestly, even the first time it went off, I wasn't concerned. It's very safe out here. Trust me. The last time there was a break-in on Butternut Lake, it was in the dead of winter. Some high school kids with a keg jimmied open a window at a rental cabin and had a party there. Seriously, that's it. That's crime on Butternut Lake. The only reason my brother even had an alarm installed was because the first home health aide, Mrs. Everson, was worried about marauders. She actually used the word ‘marauders,'” he added, amused, but Mila couldn't see the humor in this now.

“Reid, you don't understand,” she said, watching the door.

“You're right, I don't,” he agreed. “Explain it to me.”

“There isn't time now,” she said, impatiently, wondering if she should call the police herself. But some corner of her brain—some rational corner—knew that Reid was probably right, that it was probably just a faulty sensor, and that everything would probably be okay. But there was that word.
Probably
.

“I need to go down to the basement myself,” she said suddenly. “I need to make sure there's”—her voice dropped again—“there's nobody down there.”

“You mean, other than the spiders?”

But she ignored his remark and started to move the chair away from the door. She was afraid if she didn't leave his room soon, she'd lose her nerve and not be able to leave it at all.

“All right, look, I'll go,” Reid said. “You wait here.”

“Reid, no. You can't go down a flight of stairs on your crutches.”

“Why not?”

“Because you could fall.”

“Well, that's what I'm worried about you doing. I mean, look at you, Mila. Your legs are shaking so hard your knees are practically knocking.”

“I'll be fine,” she said, unlocking the door and opening it.

“Mila—”

“I don't have time for this,” she said, standing in the open doorway.
And neither do you.
“I have to go.”

He started to say something else, but she cut him off.

“Reid, please, no more arguing. Just promise me something, okay?”

He hesitated. “Okay.”

“Promise me you'll lock the door behind me. And promise me if you hear”—
if you hear me scream
she almost said, but she changed it—“if you hear anything, anything at all, you'll call the police.”

“All right,” he said reluctantly. “And, Mila? As you come down the basement stairs, there's a row of windows on the wall directly in front of you. The one with the faulty sensor is all the way on the right.”

She nodded and left him then, closing the door behind her and waiting until she heard him lock it before she started down the hall. Then she walked stealthily to the kitchen, turning on the lights as she went and stopping when she got there to consider whether she should take some kind of weapon with her. A
hammer, maybe. There was one of those in the utility drawer. Or the baseball bat she'd seen in the hall closet. But no, she decided. Brandon was stronger, and faster, than she was. If she tried to use a makeshift weapon against him, he could easily turn it on her. Or worse. He could turn it on Reid.

She walked over to the basement door and turned the doorknob quickly, very quickly, almost as if it were hot and might blister her hand if she touched it for too long. Then she pushed the door open and turned on the light.
One step at a time,
she told herself as she started down the stairs. And she could see Reid's point now. Her legs were shaking so violently she was afraid they would buckle beneath her. But she kept going, and once she reached the bottom of the stairs, she saw ahead of her the row of windows Reid had mentioned. The one on the right looked fine.
Looked
fine, but it still needed to be inspected, as did the rest of the basement.

So she walked toward the window, fully expecting Brandon to materialize out of some shadowy corner or, worse yet, put a hand on her shoulder from behind. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, but there was nothing to see but more basement and the steps leading back up to the kitchen. So she kept going, her cotton nightgown brushing against her legs, the concrete floor cool and damp beneath her feet. Her breath was coming fast and shallow, and her body, even in the chilly basement, was bathed in sweat. But she needed to stay calm, she told herself, or, at the very least, she needed to not panic. Because if Brandon was here, somewhere, she was going to need to keep her wits about her if she wanted to protect Reid.

After what seemed like an eternity, she reached the window, and a tiny but welcome wave of relief washed over her. Nobody had come through this window. Not tonight, and not any other
night recently, either. There was an unbroken spiderweb spanning the entire thing, and for some reason, Mila reached up and ran a hand through its sticky strings.

Thank God,
she thought, leaning against the wall. And after a minute, she walked, across the basement and back up the steps. But when she came out into the kitchen, she hesitated. Reid was there, leaning on his crutches, waiting for her.

“I know I said I'd stay in my room,” he said, with an apologetic shrug. “But I was worried about you. Is everything okay?” he asked, watching her carefully.

She nodded, suddenly embarrassed. “It's fine. You were right, by the way. Nobody broke in through that window. I don't think it's been open for a long time. There's a spiderweb over it.”

He nodded. But he didn't move. “Mila, what's going on?”

“Nothing,” she said, coming farther into the kitchen. “I just . . . I just got a little freaked out, that's all. This cabin, out here in the woods, and you and I all alone in it. . . . I mean, do you know how many scary movies start with that premise, Reid?
A lot
of them. And I've probably seen too many of them.” She smiled, or tried to smile, anyway.

But he looked unconvinced. “I don't mean what's going on
tonight,
Mila. I mean, what's going on
in general
. What happened before tonight? Before you came here? Why are you so afraid?”

“I'm not, I'm not afraid,” she said, fidgeting with her nightgown.

He didn't say anything. Instead, he stood perfectly still, watching her, and waiting for her to tell him what was wrong. And, for one wild moment, she almost did. It was so tempting, in its way. She'd start at the beginning, start from the night she met Brandon at the diner, and go from there. His jealousy, his paranoia, his violent outbursts, her running away the first
time, and him stopping her, her meeting Ms. Thompson, and her running away again. But if she told him all of it, what then? He might accept it, and her, unquestioningly. Or he might . . . he might tell her that it was more than he could handle. And if he told her that, would she blame him? After all, what kind of man, knowing the truth, would sign on for a life with her? A life lived in fear, a life lived waiting for Brandon to find them.
No man,
she answered herself. Not even Reid. And if she told him now, what was happening between them might be over, over before it had even really begun. And, selfishly, she couldn't bear that thought.

“You're not going to tell me, are you?” he asked now.

She shook her head guiltily.

He sighed, but he didn't argue the point. Instead, he said, “Do you want a drink? There's a very good bottle of whiskey in the liquor cabinet. I know because I gave it to my brother for Christmas.”

“No. No, thank you,” she said, and then she remembered something. “You know what I would like, though?”

“What?”

“A cherry Popsicle.”

“Really? Why?”

“A friend of mine . . . someone I knew once, introduced me to them. And I don't know why, but for some reason, having one always made me feel better.”

“Did it?” he said, looking a little bemused. “Well, we don't have any here. But I could ask Lonnie to put them on the grocery list.”

Mila smiled at him, a little shakily. Apparently, just
talking
about cherry Popsicles was enough to make her feel better.

She must not have
looked
better though, because Reid was
still staring at her worriedly. “Are you sure you're all right?” he asked.

“I'm fine, really,” she said. “Don't worry about me.”

“Easier said than done,” he said, with the closest thing to a smile she'd seen from him since the alarm had gone off.

She closed the door to the basement, and they left the kitchen, Mila going first, and Reid following behind her on his crutches. She stopped outside his bedroom door. “I'm sorry I panicked. Obviously, I overreacted.”

He shrugged. “I'll call the alarm company in the morning, and I'll have them send someone out to fix that sensor.”

She nodded.

“Are you really going to be able to go back to sleep tonight?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said.
Not a chance,
she thought.

“Well, you know where to find me,” he said with a smile, indicating the open door to his room.

After they said good night, she walked back down the hallway to her room but knew she didn't want to get back into bed. She was still too keyed up, and she felt a little grimy, too, from the cold sweat she'd broken out into, and from the gritty floor of the basement and the sticky spiderweb over the window. She went into her bathroom, turned on the shower, stripped off her clothes, and stepped under the spray. She stood there for a long time, letting the hot water sluice over her, and then she grabbed a bar of soap and a washcloth and scrubbed herself. After she got out of the shower, she dried herself off, rubbed her wet hair with a towel, and changed into another pair of panties and another nightgown.

She got into bed then, but she didn't turn off the bedside table light. She didn't do anything but sit there, for a long time, letting
a new realization sink in. She sighed then and got out of bed. The night wasn't over yet.

R
eid was sitting on the edge of his bed when he heard a light tap on his door. “Mila?” he said.

The door cracked open. “Can I come in?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said. She came in and he saw that she'd taken a shower—her hair was still damp at the ends—and changed into another nightgown. And her color was better now, almost back to normal. But he knew she was still afraid. He could feel her fear in the room with them, almost as if it were a third person.