Chapter 45

The next morning as Brook sat with Lance in his workroom, she laid her pencil on her pad and cleared her throat. He looked up from his project to find her staring at him.

“Something is really bothering me,” she said.

He waited.

“As I write, I keep remembering things. Jase and his gang mentioned my car being right where it was supposed to be.” Brook frowned. “What do you make of that?”

“I don’t know, Brooklyn. I guess it could mean a number of things. Maybe they had someone cruising around, looking for a good vehicle to take. Maybe the spotter saw your car and started following you, then called them with the location when you stopped. Or maybe someone knew you were going to that exact spot and tipped them off ahead of time.”

“Exactly,” she said, feeling as though she were venturing into fearful territory. “And as far as I know, the only person who knew where I was going…was Clark.”

Lance looked thoughtful but said nothing.

“But that’s impossible.” She chewed on the end of the pencil for a second. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know the man, Brooklyn.” Lance’s tone was steady, noncommittal. “You’d be in a better position to judge that.”

“Maybe the shock of what I went through has made my memory unreliable. But that’s what I thought I heard. When you combine that with the fact that Benny had a key…”

“It isn’t logical. I mean, you and your husband have plenty of money. From your description of him, he doesn’t sound like a criminal.” Lance bent over his project once again as he talked. “Plus, I can’t believe he’d want anything bad to happen to you. He’d have to be insane.”

“You’re right; it’s ridiculous.” Brook shook her head and picked up the pencil once again.

“I never said it was ridiculous. I just said the man would have to be insane to put you at risk in any way.”

Brook doodled on her paper. “My perceptions could be a little off, I guess. I don’t even know why I’m thinking about this right now. When I first sat down, I was actually planning to try and write a poem.”

Lance looked up at her and wondered why she changed her mind about following this line of thought. He had wanted to explore the subject a little further, but if she didn’t feel the same, then he wouldn’t pursue it. He let the topic slide away. “A poem? About what?”

“This place.” She smiled at him. “The forest, the cabin, the snow…I don’t know. Just this wonderful place.”

“I admire people who can write poetry. I feel poetic sometimes, but could never get the feeling into words.”

“I don’t know if I can either,” she replied. “But I’m going to try.”

“While you’re doing that, I’m going to get another cup of coffee. Would you like some?” Lance stood.

“Sure, thanks,” she said, intent on the page in front of her. Lance stepped close to her on his way to the kitchen and grabbed her empty cup. He kissed the top of her head and lingered beside her, gazing over her shoulder at the curve of her cheek. She should just describe herself if she wants to create a beautiful poem.