Chapter 4 Smoke Beneath Ice

Charles's POV

"Charles isn't the kind of man you figure out," she explained quietly, watching steam rise from her glass. "If you know where to stand, he is the kind you survive."

I silence. Although my shoulders stayed rigid, the cushions under me were velvet-soft. My wrist still throbbed under the compress Eleanor had wrapped earlier, but the weight behind her words caused more discomfort than any aching.

She looked across at her cup. "He is not accidental in his cruelty. He is exact. Cold, sure; but loyal if he sees you have value.

I whispered, "That's comforting."

Not meant to be was it.

Leaning back, I pushed my spine into the chair and watched sunlight slink across the marble tiles. "He mistrusted me."

"Should he?" wonders She responded swiftly. You arrived with bogus papers and bruises in the middle of the night. Not even let me phone the police.

I peered down, fingers curling into the armrest.

"I'm not evaluating you," she said gently. Charles, though, does not engage in guessing games. He models conflict.

I went to face her. Then why did you phone him?

"Because whether you like it or not war is approaching your door."

Her voice cracked just slightly at the end, and I sensed something powerful, something mothering, change in her. Eleanor had always been the kind of lady who wore diamonds with her threats and battled without speaking.

She dropped her cup and extended her hand toward me. "Molly, I have known Charles from nineteen years ago. He is nasty. He is not kind. Still, he never let me fail.

I fixed my hushed voice on our clasped hands. "Why does it feel as though you are warning me rather than comforting me?"

"Because you have to understand something."

She dropped her tone and leaned closer. You cannot tell him a lie. He'll see it. He always acts.

With hands tucked into his trouser pockets, Charles stood close to the sundial in a pose too rigid to be casual. His presence upset everything; it did not fit among petals and fountains.

I ought to have backed off. My feet, though, paid no attention.

I entered the road, underfoot gravel crumbled.

He did not move.

"Eleanor said you were in the garden," I remarked, voice low and uncertain why I spoke first.

He turned to look at me. She says a lot of stuff.

I stopped a few paces off. "She also claimed you are dangerous."

His mouth opened to a slight smile. She isn't mistaken.

Between us, the quiet became heavy. Though they looked far, birds chirped softly above. Not sure whether I was cold or perhaps trying to hold something inside me from leaking out, I kept my arms securely wrapped across my chest.

Once, slow and under control, he stepped forward half-distance closed. Molly, tell me what you are concealing.

My throat became tight. I'm not hiding anything.

His eyes stayed fixed not blinking. Then, why do your hands shake?

I dropped my head. Oh, damn it. My fingers betrayed me, quivering slightly at my sides, thereby betraying every word my tongue sought to control.

Rising my chin, I said, "Maybe I'm just cold."

He moved even another step nearer.

"Or maybe you're afraid I already know."

I just about held my ground. You hardly know me at all.

Quietly, he responded, "No; but I know people who run."

My breath staggered.

You wear your silence like armor, he said. But it does not shield you. It simply helps you to see.

Now he was too near, his cologne aroma cutting through rose flowers as his shadow brushed mine. He never touched me, yet I sensed his presence like heat applied to skin.

"I'm not your enemy," I responded quietly.

Then quit acting like one.

Though my mouth opened, no words came out.

He avoided waiting.

"Anything you're running from won't vanish just because you're standing in my garden."

His voice dropped, then tone sharpened.

And I will know if you bring danger to this house. Sooner than you would want me to.

I drew my hood down, scarf tightly under my chin, and looked at the schedule board. Blinking in fading red letters were departures.

Los Angeles here. San Bernardino. Sacramento.

Anywhere except here.

Finger tightly around the last of my money, I wandered toward the ticket booth. Behind the glass, a woman without looking up tapped her nails against the counter.

"One-way," I remarked in a quiet voice. San Bernardino.

"Coin or card?"

I moved the folded bills across the slit. Her hands worked slowly, keys clicking like far-off showers. The printer complained and produced a thin slip of paper.

Fourth platform. Leaves twenty years old.

I picked the ticket, fingers shaking more than I would have admitted. My palm closed around the paper like it could disappear. I turned away, breath erratic, steps even.

Never hurry.

Don't point eyeballs.

The fluorescent lights of the station hummed above as I headed for the benches. Beside a vending machine, a woman rocked a sleeping youngster. Teenager skrolled through her phone listening with headphones in. Under a newspaper a man in a rumpled jacket passed out.

I later saw him.

Arm's folded while leaning against a damaged pillar. Not perusing books. Not traveling.

Only observing here.

My heart stumbled.

Dark cloak. Hand gloves. Eyes too keen to make one bored. He was not fit for this. Not waiting for a bus was he.

He was here waiting for me.

I turned my face slightly and hair dropped across my cheek. kept a consistent pace of walking. conscientious. Every stride made the throb in my temples more noticeable.

I arrived at the platform looking ahead. The bus had not yet shown up. void. overly exposed. Hands clutching my bag as if it were a lifeline, I sank onto the bench furthest from the lights.

Still, I sensed him.

Not moving at all Not making a blink. Monitoring.

I exhaled gently and shallow, pushing my ideas straight forward.

You almost have nothing. Maintain it together.

Down the lane, headlights showed up. The engine hummed across the ground like comfort wrapped in cacophony. As the bus drew closer, door creaking open and brakes grinding, it snipped.

I started fast, ticket out, looking away from the pillar. The motorist just tore the slip and waved me through without saying anything.

I boarded and dove for a seat at the rear. Inside smelled like old vinyl and exhaust. I huddled into the darkness next to the window and gazed out.

The man had left.

disappeared.

I was not feeble. I had no fragility. I knew how to wear masks, how to stay straight while the world turned upside down, but something about Charles's stare, his voice, the accuracy in his motions... it opened me like a forgotten bottle of perfume, spewing all I attempted to hide.

Why then did I even give a damn about his opinion?

Still, his voice hung about the room like fog.

If you stay, you tell me everything.

How could I, though?

Should he discover the whole truth, what would he do?

Rising slowly from the floor, I used the blouse sleeve to gently clean my face. I moved across the room looking at the mirror. The girl staring back escaped my recognition. Empty eyes. Chipped lips. Hair mussed from a turbulent path and emotions too long imprisoned.

I reached for a handkerchief blindly in the drawer.

Something floated down to the floor.

white paper

a folded note.

I stopped cold.

It had not before been there.

The paper seemed to have been dropped under the door while I was crying, right under the edge of the dresser.

I stooped and lightly brushed her fingers.

Not a seal. Without a name.

Simply a sentence.

Tell him the truth; alternatively I will.

Leg crossed, she sat by the window with a book slung gently on her lap. She turned shocked as I walked in.

"Did you publish this?" I raised the note with shaky fingers.

Her eyebrows knitted. "What?," asked

"Don't pretend coy." I let this slide under my door.

She took it slowly, her eyes gliding over the words. She then cast a glance above.

"I didn't write this."

My pulse dropped. Who then?

"I haven't been upstairs in hours," she remarked. "Molly, what is going on?"

"I'm not sure," said I turned away, holding the doorframe. But someone wants me corounded.

Rising now, Eleanor murmured, "You're not making sense," her voice somewhat worried.

"I am not suspicious." Someone is working from the inside trying to destroy me.

"Perhaps it's someone trying to force you toward honesty."

I choked.

Eleanor had not produced that voice.

It passed behind me.

I shifted sharply.

Like he had been carved into the wood itself, Charles stood there leaning against the doorframe. In his pockets, hands in there. eyes locked on me.

"You have one more chance," he explained quietly. "Talk," said.