Bob glanced over his shoulder as if her question had startled him. "No. What makes you ask?"
"No reason. I was just thinking about everything this afternoon. Doesn't it seem mighty convenient that Dan Sherman killed himself when he did?"
Her husband didn't answer.
"I can't help wondering about that."
The lights flickered again, and this time went out. The room was pitch-black and silent without the background noise of the TV and the hum of the fridge.
"Bob?"
"I'm here."
He reached for her, his hand clasping her elbow.
There was a pounding in the distance. "What's that?" Peggy asked, jolted by the unexpectedness of it.
"I don't hear anything."
"I do."
Her husband switched on the flashlight and led the way back into the kitchen. The pounding was unmistakable now. Someone was at their front door.
"I hear it," Bob said in a husky whisper.
Panic swelled in Peggy's throat. This was like history repeating itself. "Don't answer it," she whispered fearfully.
Bob ignored her. With the flashlight guiding him, he left her and walked into the other room.
Peggy wanted to cry out, to remind him that it'd been a night like this when Maxwell Russell had come to their door. Their lives hadn't been the same since.
"Bob! No!"
"Don't be ridiculous, Peggy."
She moved behind him, trembling as he released the dead bolt. Her breath seemed to catch in her lungs as he opened the door and flashed the light on their unforeseen guest.
Hannah Russell stood drenched and shivering on the other side of the screen door.
"Hannah," Peggy cried and stepped around her husband to open the screen and let the woman in. "Are you all right?"
"I got lost," she whispered. "I thought I could find your place again on my own, but 1 was lost, and the rain was coming down so hard and I was sure I was going to drive off the road."
Peggy couldn't imagine why she hadn't phoned. "Come in," she urged. Bob took Hannah's coat and hung it on the hall tree to dry.
It was all Peggy could do to hide her distress when she saw how thin and pale the young woman was. "Come inside where it's warm," she insisted, taking Hannah's arm. "When was the last time you had anything to eat?"
"This morning—I think. I haven't had much of an appetite lately."
The lights flickered and came back on, and Peggy sighed with relief.
Bob clicked off the flashlight.
"I shouldn't have come," Hannah mumbled. "I told myself I wouldn't, but I didn't have anywhere else to go."
"You made the right decision. Bob, bring in her suitcase. I'll put on some soup. Hannah, you go take a hot shower and get out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold."
"I can stay?"
"Of course you can stay with us."
Tears spilled from the young woman's eyes. "Thank you. Thank you so much."
"There's no need to thank us," Peggy said, escorting Hannah to the bathroom down the hall, where there were plenty of thick, fresh towels.
When she returned it was to find her husband studying her. He didn't look nearly as certain about this as Peggy did.
"We'll settle everything in the morning," she promised.
Bob's eyes burned into hers. "That's what you said the night Max Russell arrived."
Seventeen
Rachel Pendergast checked her afternoon appointment schedule at Get Nailed as she ate her Weight Watchers frozen entree. Jolene Peyton was down for a haircut. Rachel remembered the young girl from previous appointments. She recalled Jolene's father, too, and his uneasiness about being in an establishment frequented by females. She found his attitude fairly typical of single fathers.
Jolene was a motherless child and she'd made it clear that she was eager to have her father remarry. Bruce Peyton's wife had been killed in a car accident two years ago while driving to pick up Jolene from her kindergarten class. From what Rachel had heard, several hours had passed before anyone remembered that Jolene was still at the school. Not surprisingly, the seven-year-old was terrified of being left behind.
Despite Jolene's effort to push Rachel and her father together, Bruce Peyton amused Rachel more than he attracted her. While she enjoyed the child's company, Rachel felt that getting involved with a man so obviously in love with his dead wife had virtually no chance of developing into a healthy relationship.
Just after four, Jolene skipped into the salon, as relaxed in Get Nailed as her own bedroom. "Hi, Rachel," she said, pigtails bouncing.
The child must be going into third grade this year; to Rachel, she seemed younger than her age—again, not surprising. "Are you ready to get your hair cut?" she asked, taking out a miniature version of the plastic cape.
Bruce followed his daughter into the salon but didn't show any of her enthusiasm. He nodded briefly in Rachel's direction, then glanced nervously around as if he suspected someone would wrestle him to the ground and dye his hair blue.
"Here you go," Rachel said, turning the chair for Jolene to climb into. She adjusted the cape and secured the clasp.
With practiced ease Jolene flipped her pigtails over her shoulder. "I want you to cut it just like you did before."
"Ah, a woman who knows her own mind," Rachel murmured. She released the bands holding Jolene's hair and carefully ran a brush through it. To her surprise Bruce didn't take a seat or wander into the mall the way he had on previous visits. Instead he stood about two feet behind Rachel, watching every move.