Good for You: A Novel (14)

Almost.

Okay, the smell wasn’t the worst thing she’d ever come across. Somewhere under the not-so-subtle notes of BO lingered something she couldn’t put her finger on. Wood, maybe? Anyway, she was definitely awake now, and that counted for something. Then again, maybe it was best not to be conscious for her own bitter end.

“Aly?” grunted the man.

The intruder knew her name? He must have gone through Luke’s papers, seen the photos of her on the fridge and in frames around the house, and made the connection. Sneaky squatter. She forgot about playing possum and scrambled off the sofa, only then realizing that the madman hadn’t left her on the floor where she’d fainted. Ouch. Her head hurt—a lot—and she felt weak.

But not so weak that her fight-or-flight instinct didn’t kick in. She immediately began bear-crawling toward the door.

“Aly. Stop.”

She froze.

That voice.

It was deep. Unhurried. And extremely exasperating. No . . . it couldn’t be.

But of course it was. “Motherclucker,” muttered Aly, still on all fours.

“Nice to see you, too,” he said coolly from above her.

“Stop looking at me, Wyatt,” she snapped.

He immediately spun around. “This better?”

Of all the beach houses in all the towns. “Why didn’t you tell me it was you?” she seethed as she attempted to stand. Her elbow ached. Had she hit something on the way down?

“I grabbed your arm to break your fall,” he said.

Her eyes widened. Was he pulling some freaky mind-reading trick on her?

“Here,” said Wyatt, who’d just turned to face her again. He extended his hand, and although it was calloused, entirely too large, and undoubtedly filthy, she reluctantly accepted it. At least he wasn’t a squatter—well, not a random squatter—and yes, he’d probably kept her from flattening her face on the floor. Still, what the heck was he doing here, and why did he look like he’d been living under a bridge for the past several months? His beard was such an unkempt mess that she wouldn’t have been surprised if a couple of birds flew out of it.

“Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” she asked. No wonder she hadn’t recognized him—the one time she’d seen him before, he’d been in a suit and tie, shaved, and looking like a productive member of society.

He shrugged.

“Is all this—” She gestured to the tornado that had torn through the first floor. “Is this your doing?”

He tilted his chin, nodded.

She was growing more irritated by the moment. Was he preverbal? Was it so difficult to form a full sentence and tell her what was going on?

“The real question is, why are you here? This is . . .” She didn’t want to say it, but she had to. “This is my house.”

Now he opened his mouth, but instead of speaking, he began to laugh. “Your house?” he finally managed.

“What’s so funny?” she said, trying not to let her eyes linger on his bare torso. It wasn’t as though he was running around in his underwear—he had shorts on, though no shoes—but since he was mere inches from her, it seemed entirely too intimate.

“He said you probably had no idea.”

“He? He who?”

“Roger,” he said, referring to Luke’s lawyer. “He said you wouldn’t answer him.”

It was true that Roger had tried to get her on the phone. Maybe more than a few times. He’d emailed her, too. And after she confirmed that she didn’t need to deal with anything immediately, she’d told him to mail her the paperwork and she’d call when she was good and ready. Which was supposed to be September, at the earliest.

“What’s to answer?” said Aly, putting her hands on her hips. She needed to stay angry; it was either that or fall apart, and she couldn’t afford to do that when her plan B was already so clearly in danger of turning into plan C. “Luke left it to me. He told me he was going to, right after he bought it, and everything would be taken care of.”

“By me,” said Wyatt in a low voice. There was a slight sheen on his shoulders and stomach, probably because he hadn’t bothered to turn on the air-conditioning. Still, had he no shame? Did she really have to stand there and bear witness to his sweaty skin?

“What do you mean, ‘By me’?” she demanded.

“Luke left me this place, too,” said Wyatt, waving his arms around. The man had the wingspan of a condor. How tall was he, anyway?

“That’s . . . not possible.”

“It’s not only possible, it’s true, and whether you like it or not, it’s what happened. If you’d picked up the phone when I called you last fall, or even last winter, none of this would be a surprise to you.”

“But . . .” Now she was the preverbal one. Wyatt had called her at least once, maybe even two or three times, but she’d been so upset with him for going on that stupid sailing trip with Luke that she immediately deleted his voice mails. He and Luke had been in the Florida Keys, not on Lake Michigan, when it had happened. It was a last-minute vacation, and Luke had invited Aly to join them. Practically begged her, really, but she’d just applied for the editor in chief position and didn’t feel she could take time away from work. Also, she hated Florida, if only because that’s where their father was rumored to be.