House of Shadows Page 25

  “I agree, Mom.” Whew, what a relief. I didn’t want to worry Mom, so this was good. “I’ll tell my instructors, hopefully they’ll let me make up anything I miss.”

  “I’m sure they will. This isn’t a normal circumstance.”

  We leafed through menus and wedding cake options in silence.

  “Rose petals,” said Mom suddenly. “Use rose petals. What could be more perfect than that?”

  “Ooh, I love that!” I said. “I’ll have Lawncare Extraordinaire collect all of the roses they trim the day before the wedding. We can put all the petals in big bowls, people can just grab a handful. I love it, Mom! Thanks!”

  “You’re welcome honey,” said Mom. “Your wedding is going to be beautiful.”

  “Yeah, it is,” I smiled.

  Mom was right, my instructors took it for granted that of course I would go with Miles. Someone tried to kill him, for pity’s sake! Of course I should be with him at the trial.

  I would have gone anyway, but it was nice that they were understanding.

  Miles and I each packed a bag, and Miles made our plane and hotel reservations.

  “I’ll be so glad when this is over,” I said the night before we left, as we sat in the living room eating pizza and trying to watch a movie. Jenny was out with Xander.

  “Me too,” Miles said. “I’ve got other things I’d like to focus on.”

  “Like me?” I shoulder bumped him.

  “Well of course!” Miles shoulder bumped me back, and grinned at me. “What did you think I was talking about, finals?”

  “Well with you, Mr. Valedictorian-in-progress, you just might be!” I laughed and dodged as he tried to grab me.

  “I’ve got pizza! Don’t make me spill it!” I gasped, still laughing. “I don’t even want to know what pizza sauce would do to the carpet.”

  “I’m sure the owner of the building can afford to replace the carpet,” Miles smiled.

  I love his smile. I love how it lights up his eyes.

  We cleaned up the remains of our pizza dinner, then I walked Miles to the door.

  I hugged him, and he kissed me goodnight and went to his apartment.

  I would be so glad when we could say goodnight, without him having to leave.

  We flew out early the next morning. There was a long line at security, so in spite of arriving at the airport with time to spare, I felt rushed and stressed by the time we were seated on the plane.

  “So this is first class,” I said, looking around.

  “This is first class,” Miles said. “This is how Grandma Polly and I flew home when I was released from the hospital.”

  “Aah, then you don’t know how the other half lives. Three narrow little seats, crammed together. No leg room. Not that the lack of leg room would matter to me, but it would you.”

  “First class didn’t mean a thing, when I knew you were back in Cedar Oaks either with some other guy, or with your heart breaking,” Miles said with a melting look.

  “I most certainly wasn’t with some other guy, and my heart wasn’t breaking. It was completely broken,” I said honestly. “But my heart isn’t breaking now, although it is so full, sometimes I think it may burst.”

  Miles leaned over and kissed me. All too soon, the flight attendant announced it was time for take-off, and to fasten our seat belts.

  The flight was direct, which I was thankful for. It was uneventful as well, which I was also thankful for. We arrived safely at the airport and took a taxi to the hotel we were staying at.

  The DA arranged for Miles to have a guard, which greatly relieved my mind. The guard raised an eyebrow at us when he realized we had separate hotel rooms, but didn’t say anything. He accepted Miles’ request that he keep an eye on both of our doors, which were side by side. We requested rooms that adjoined, which I found reassuring.

  The night passed without incident, though. No crazy blond stalker or creepy dark-haired guy disturbed us.

  Miles met with the prosecuting attorney the next morning, and they went over—Miles’ testimony, I guess.

  I visited the hotel salon during their meeting. I had my hair done, and got a French manicure. I liked that better than the nail polish I tried on the semester before, and decided that’s how I would have my nails done for our wedding.

  I browsed the hotel shops, as I waited for Miles to be finished with his meeting. I wasn’t worried about him since he was under guard, as well as with the attorney, and he reluctantly agreed it would be safer for me to be in the public part of the hotel rather than in a room all by myself, without a guard. I found the cutest purse at one of the boutiques, and added a few new pieces to my wardrobe.

  Miles and his guard walked through the lobby door around lunch time.

  “Hey, I like your hair!” Miles said, touching the soft waves around my face.

  I had bangs now, I was done having to flip unruly hair out of my eyes so I could see.

  “Thanks,” I smiled.

  I was happy with it, and glad he was too.

  We went back to Miles’ room and ordered room service, and talked and watched movies for the rest of the day. We ordered room service again for dinner, then called it a night.

  The next day we were up early. We ate breakfast, and headed to the courthouse.

  Miles looked very nice in his suit, and I wore a calf length, khaki pencil skirt with a fitted, long sleeve button-up blouse and heels. I’d prefer a t-shirt and jeans and a pair of athletic shoes, for comfort, but this was court, and I was the almost-grieving almost-widow.

  We reached the building, and passed through the security check point. Then, we were seated in the courtroom, and waited for the judge to arrive and call court into session.

  A guard or bailiff, I wasn’t sure if there’s a difference, brought in Alfred. He was joined by his attorney, a weasel-y looking character. I was glad the prosecution had such a solid case.

  Alfred looked even more evil and vindictive than he did the last time I saw him. I was filled with a sense of darkness as he turned and gave Miles a baleful look on his way to sit at the defendant’s table.

  I squeezed Miles’ hand, and he smiled at me reassuringly as he put his arm around me.

  Court progressed slowly. I thought the whole case was so cut and dried, it would go faster. Apparently, that isn’t how it works.

  During an afternoon recess, the prosecuting attorney was talking with Miles, and I needed to find the ladies room. I motioned to Miles so he’d know I was leaving, and he nodded, so I walked out of the courtroom and into the corridor and followed the signs to the nearest women’s bathroom.

  Mission accomplished, I exited the bathroom and headed back down the corridor. It was empty, except for me and the woman walking toward me.

  Her focus was on wherever she was going. After being stalked for the past several months, my focus was on her.

  The woman wore a nondescript pantsuit, sensible shoes, no purse, she was probably middle-aged, wore minimal makeup, and had dark hair, which perfectly matched the dark feeling that grew stronger the closer she came. My gut instinct screamed Red Alert.

  I continued my surveillance from behind the nearest potted palm.

  Who was this woman? Why did she seem familiar? Was she familiar? I didn’t remember ever seeing her before…

  But I had.

  Student Services, the apartment surveillance recording, the grassy knoll—recognition struck me with the jarring force of a lightning bolt, as I stared into the cold, dead eyes of Bea Cochran, aka Blondie.

  There was no one around. Why was no one around! This woman was wanted by the police and the Sheriff—she put a red X on our wedding date—she may try and stop Miles from testifying—

  I jumped out from behind the fern, and tackled her like she was holding a basketball. She went down hard.

  I had the element of surprise, but she had the element of mass. Now I was even more impressed that she’d been able to stuff herself into that little outfit last semester.


  She fought, and I hung on. We grappled furiously and silently, there on the floor of the courthouse corridor.

  She managed to throw me off and kicked at me, but I dodged.

  No way was she bruising my face, I had wedding pictures coming up!

  I swung my legs and caught her in the back of the knees, knocked her flat on her back, and grabbed her by the leg with my freshly manicured French nails. That got a yelp out of her. As she struggled to her feet, I pulled hard, causing her to trip, and she went down again. I held on tight.

  “Why do you want people to think we have a bad relationship?” I asked, breathing hard, as I hung onto her.

  She looked surprised, then her eyes narrowed and she fought harder.

  “What do you have to gain?” I asked, sinking my nails into her wrist as she tried to grab my hair.

  She didn’t say a word, but she fought harder.

  “Why—do you—hate me?” I demanded to know, running out of breath.

  I got a baleful look of hatred in response.

  With my legs confined by my tight skirt, I felt like a mermaid caught out of water. I could totally take this woman if I were in a pair of jeans!

  She managed to free herself from my clutches and flung me aside, then took off down the hall.

  I ripped off a high heeled shoe and threw it as hard as I could at her retreating back, but all I got was another yelp. I struggled to my feet and attempted pursuit, but only managed to lengthen the slit in the back of my skirt significantly, before falling flat.

  Oh, for a pair of jeans and my cross-trainers!

  I struggled to my feet once again, and raced after her as fast as my skirt would allow.

  I rounded a corner and saw someone that looked official, he was probably a guard.

  “A woman ran past! Dark hair! She’s wanted by the police in Glen Haven and the Sheriff department in Cedar Oaks, and is trying to stop my fiancé from testifying in the Alfred Sullivan murder trial!”

  The guard looked stunned.

  “Go!” I exclaimed. “Do something! She’s getting away!”

  He spoke into the radio attached to his shoulder, and then requested more information from me.

  I told him everything I could think of, and finally his shoulder squawked a reply.

  The woman was seen leaving the building. She was gone.

  I held my head in my hands, and groaned.

  The guard cleared his throat.

  “You know—you are supposed to wear shoes here, it’s kind of required.”

  “Yes sir,” I said. “I’ll make sure and take care of that. You wouldn’t happen to have a stapler, would you?”

  He looked stunned.

  What, does this man have only the one expression?

  “I’ve had a bit of a mishap,” I said with dignity. “Please be so kind as to point me in the direction of the nearest stapler.”

  The guard cleared his throat.

  “Wait here,” he muttered, and left.

  When people say “wait here,” I usually want to do the opposite, but my skirt needed fixing if I intended to go back into the courtroom. If going barefoot was a no-no, I’m sure they wouldn’t care for my skirt, which now had a very racy cut to it.

  The guard returned, still with that look of shock on his face, and handed me a stapler.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll return this shortly.”

  I walked sideways to the ladies room, and once inside, repaired the extended slit in my skirt. I glanced in the mirror, and realized I was also missing several buttons. No wonder the guard looked so stunned! I’d never wear a blouse this low-cut on purpose. I stapled it, too.

  I didn’t have the time, the tools, or the products, to restore my hair to its former state. I smoothed it briefly with my fingers, and took satisfaction in the knowledge that at least it wasn’t in my eyes.

  I walked back to the guard and returned the stapler with a dignified “Thank you,” then returned to the corridor and collected my widely-scattered footwear.

  “Where have you been?” Miles exclaimed in an undertone, as I slid into the seat beside him. He put his arm around me, furtively smoothing my hair and removing a few leaves, in the process. “And what—happened to you?”

  “Tell you later,” I said quietly.

  He looked askance at the staple-job on my blouse, and quickly handed me my sweater. I put it on, and wrapped it around me snugly. I was wishing the room was cooler, and that the sweater was longer. I wasn’t sure how long the staples were going to hold together the back of my tight skirt. Sitting down may not have been the best idea.

  “You look like you’ve been in a fight,” he muttered.

  “I have.”

  Miles looked shocked, and I just shrugged.

  Chapter 19

  Sitting in court all day for his own attempted murder, and Miles wasn’t even called on. At the end of the day, we returned to the hotel. Miles watched me speculatively the whole way, and did not say a word.

  The minute the door to the room closed behind us, he wanted to know—

  “What—happened?”

  I explained.

  Miles dropped into a chair, and covered his face with his hands for several long minutes. Then he began to shake.

  I watched him, concerned, until I realized—he was laughing!

  Maybe I’d get out of being lectured, after all.

  Miles wiped the tears from his eyes, then he stood and faced me.

  “Anika Riley—I cannot believe you would do something so—dangerous! You could have been seriously injured, or even killed!”

  Guess I wasn’t going to get out of the lecture, after all.

  I scowled as I crossed my arms, and started to turn away. Miles put his hands on my shoulders, and stopped me. He looked me in the eyes, and I looked away.

  “What?” I finally asked, glancing up at him briefly.

  “Why are you turning away from me?” I didn’t recognize the tone in his voice.

  “Because I don’t feel like being lectured right now,” I said irritably. I was tired, my feet hurt, my staples hurt even more, and I’d just been trying to save him from whatever scheme that woman had planned. I didn’t feel like being told I’d done something stupid.

  Miles didn’t respond, but he didn’t let go of me, either. I finally looked up at him again.

  “You think I’m trying to lecture you?” he asked.

  I didn’t know what to say. He looked like I hurt him somehow, and I felt bad about that, but yeah, wasn’t he?

  “Anika,” Miles said gently, and sighed. “Is that how you see me? Is that why you clam up sometimes, when I try to talk to you?”

  I didn’t know what to say, because I kind of did, when he didn’t like something I’d done. I didn’t want to admit it, though. All it would do, is make him feel worse.

  “The difference between a lecture and a conversation, is one person,” Miles said gently. “I don’t want to lecture you, I want to communicate. That means you’ve got to talk, too.”

  I gave that new idea some thought, and realized it was true. A conversation did require two people.

  Miles waited, watching me, then continued.

  “Sometimes we’re going to disagree, even strongly disagree, and when we do, we have to be able to talk about it. How do we do that, if disagreeing with you means I get shut out, and you shut down? How do I talk to you without that happening? Is it possible, or do you see me in the role of disapproving and disconnected parent, or authority figure?”

  He was right, we’d never be able to work through problems if we couldn’t talk about them. There might be something I wanted to talk about someday, and I wouldn’t want him shutting me out when that happened.

  He watched me in silence, his eyes filled with concern.

  “You’re so young…” he said under his breath. “Maybe I should have expected this.”

  He started to let go of my shoulders and I grabbed his wrists, my heart racing, and suddenly very afraid he was
having second thoughts.

  He looked confused at first, then understood.

  “I’m not trying to pull away from you, I just—have to do this,” he said. He managed to get his hands free, and ran his fingers through his hair.

  I felt bad for stressing him out so much. I shouldn’t have tried to turn away from him earlier, now I knew how awful he felt when I did that.

  He put his hands back on my shoulders, and I gripped his wrists, just in case he changed his mind.

  “I’m your friend and future husband, who loves you more than life,” he said seriously. “I don’t see how we can handle life’s difficulties, if you see me as something else.”

  He waited, watching me, but not for long.

  “Please, Anika—talk to me!” he said insistently. “I don’t want to monologue, but it’s either that or complete silence, if you refuse to say anything!”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, utterly repentant. I felt dense for taking so long to realize he was giving me a chance to talk, not mull over what he said. “I was wrong, and so unfair to you. I was thinking about what you said, not shutting you out just now. You’re right, and I do want to talk about disagreements so we can find compromise. You’ve never given me a reason to think you’re anything but my best friend… I was being horribly childish, and immature. I promise, I won’t be that way anymore. I won’t. Please forgive me.”

  “Forgive you? Of course, I forgive you… and if you are immature sometimes, I guess that’s what I get for falling in love with someone almost a hundred and fifty years younger than I am,” he said, and I was relieved to see the humor and relief that tempered the sadness in his eyes.

  I blinked away tears.

  “I’ll try not to take a hundred and forty years to catch up with you in the maturity department.”

  “You’re fine, just—don’t shut me out. I’ve seen a lot of marriages over the years. The ones that succeed have husbands and wives who communicate, and keep on communicating, no matter how strongly they may disagree. They communicate constructively rather than destructively also, but I’d be happy for now if you’d just communicate at all. Please, always talk to me, and don’t shut me out.”