The Last of the Moon Girls(92)

“And you think he wanted to kill me.”

“I think what happened tonight was about more than just wanting to scare you, Lizzy.”

Her eyes flicked away from his, but he could tell she thought so too. She may not have a name yet, but she’d apparently found her killer.

Or, rather, he’d found her.





THIRTY-SIX

Lizzy winced as she patted her skinned knee dry. It had begun to smart in earnest now. In fact, every inch of her seemed to be feeling the effects of her panicked dash through the woods. She was bone weary, her limbs sore and quivering like jelly, but at least she was clean.

And safe.

She hadn’t bothered to fight Andrew on spending the night. Nothing short of a shotgun—and probably not even that—would have convinced him to let her go back to the house. Not that she’d wanted to. He’d been as solicitous as any nursemaid, offering to make her tea, or scrambled eggs and toast. She had declined both; the mere thought of food left her queasy. But he’d hit on something when he suggested a long, hot shower.

He’d shown her to the guest room and bath, then bid her good night, only to reappear moments later with a pair of men’s pajamas, a toothbrush, Band-Aids, and antibiotic ointment. Now, as she buttoned herself into his borrowed pajamas, she found herself wishing she’d taken him up on the eggs. Not because she was hungry, but because she wasn’t ready to turn off the light and close her eyes. She was too skittish for sleep, her nerves like overtuned violin strings.

A man in her house. And a knife. The kind used to butcher deer. What if she hadn’t awakened when she did? She shoved the thought away, looking around for a distraction, something to help her wind down. Sadly, Andrew’s guest room had little to offer. She went to the door and peered out. A slice of light showed beneath one of the doors at the end of the hall. Andrew’s room, presumably. She padded down the hall, pajama bottoms clutched in her fist to keep them from sliding down around her ankles.

The door opened as soon as she knocked. “Is something wrong?”

“No. I just . . .” She glanced away, feeling awkward at having encroached on his personal space. “I don’t think I can sleep. I was wondering if you had something I could read. A magazine, maybe.”

“Sure. Yeah.” He scraped a thumb back and forth over his chin, darkened now with a shadow of stubble. “Most of my books are packed up in the basement, waiting for me to build some shelves, but I should have something lying around. Come on in while I look.”

Lizzy stepped into the room, making a quick and—she hoped—discreet survey. It was sparsely furnished: a king-size bed with a tufted suede headboard, a single nightstand and lamp, a chest of drawers with a mirror to match, and, stationed near the window, a drafting table with an adjustable lamp clamped to one end.

“Slim pickings, I’m afraid,” he called over his shoulder, as he sorted through the stack of magazines on the nightstand. “You have your choice between last month’s Architectural Digest or a dated issue of Old-House Journal, which features an absolutely fascinating article on brownstone restoration.”

Lizzy put a finger to her lips, pretending to weigh her options. “Let’s go with Old-House Journal. I adore a good brownstone restoration article.”

“Well, then.” Andrew handed her the magazine with a flourish. “You’re in luck. Though I feel I should warn you. It’s pretty steamy stuff.”

“Thanks,” Lizzy said, suddenly shy. “I was surprised your light was still on. You’ve got Boston tomorrow.”

“I had a few last-minute details to clean up.”

“At four in the morning?”

He shrugged. “I do some of my best work late at night.”

“Right. Sorry. I’ll leave you to it.”

She was almost to the door when he stopped her. “You could stay if you want. Stretch out with your magazine and read for a while. You won’t bother me.”

Her eyes slid to the bed, then back to Andrew, hating that he’d sensed her reluctance to be alone. “Are you sure?”

“I am. As long as you promise to turn the pages quietly.”

Lizzy smiled, grateful for his attempt at levity. “I promise.”

She waited until Andrew was back behind his drafting table to lie back against the pillows and open the magazine. She wouldn’t stay long. Just until she felt drowsy. As it turned out, it wouldn’t take long. She struggled through the benefits of in-kind repair versus patching, and the various components required to create a proper patching mix, but when it came to the specific parts of lime versus mica, her eyes began to glaze over.

She looked at Andrew, head bent over his blueprints, the stubby end of a drafting pencil caught between his teeth. He was the hero she never wanted, the friend she had come to trust, the risk she was still afraid to take. And yet there was a part of her that found the thought of him—of them—tantalizing. With Andrew, there would be no need to keep any part of herself hidden. He knew exactly who she was—and he wanted her anyway.

He was staring at her, she realized, a crease between his brows. “Everything okay?”

Lizzy felt her cheeks color, embarrassed to have been caught staring. “Everything’s fine.” She closed the magazine, set it aside, and swung her feet to the floor. “I think I’ll be able to sleep now.” She pushed to her feet, preparing to leave, then stopped. “Thank you, Andrew.”