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plastered his hair to his skull. His head pounded and he stopped
for a drink, straight from the bottle.
From a distance, neither of the cottages appeared occupied. Hell,
neither one looked habitable. It was nothing like their house in
Dorchester, with its shutters and corbels and red front door. On
the cottage closest to him, the paint was peeling and the planks
were rotting in the corners. Moving forward, he watched the
windows, looking for signs of movement. There was nothing.
He didn’t know which cottage was hers. He stopped to study
them closely. Both were bad, but one looked practically
abandoned. He moved toward the better one, angling away from
the window.
It had taken thirty minutes to get here from the store. Once he
surprised Erin, he knew she’d try to get away. She wouldn’t want
to go with him. She would try to get away, might even try to fight,
and he would tie her up and tape her mouth shut and then go get
the car. Once he returned with the car, he would put her in the
trunk until they were far away from this town.
He reached the side of the house and flattened himself against it,
staying away from the window. He listened for movement, the
sound of opening doors or water running or dishes clattering, but
heard nothing.
His head still hurt and he was thirsty. The heat poured down and
his shirt was wet. He was breathing too fast but he was so close to
Erin now and he thought again how she’d left him and hadn’t
cared that he’d cried. She’d laughed behind his back. Her and the
man, whoever he was. He knew there had to be a man. She
couldn’t make it on her own.
He peeked around the back of the house and saw nothing. He
crept forward, watching. Ahead, there was a small window and
he took a chance and looked in. No lights on, but it was clean and
tidy, with a dish towel draped over the kitchen sink. Just like Erin