Whispers in the Night. Diane Pershing

      He couldn’t allow that. He needed access to her. If his first stab at finding out about her family had gotten no response, if his little attempt to introduce the topic of her brother had taken him nowhere, there were still several more ways to bring up the subject.

      But only if he had the time and opportunity to do so, and to have that, he needed to remain here, on the premises.

      “Let’s look at the rest of the list, okay?” he said, trying for upbeat but doubting it came out that way. He no longer knew how to be or sound cheerful. Tension and anger had filled every day of the past four years and he wondered if it would ever go away completely.

      Instead of waiting to hear her answer, he slid open the sliding glass doors off the porch, entered the living room and took the stairs, two at a time, to the upper floor. When he heard her footsteps behind him, a small part of his tension eased. At least she was letting him get this far without canning him.

      For the next half hour, he toured the house with her, not giving her much of a chance to say anything. There was no problem he couldn’t handle and he let her know it. More squeaking floorboards, several window trims needing to be recaulked. A little electrical work, a jammed closet door. Stair treads needed to be replaced, a banister reinforced. A couple of bathroom fixtures leaked and the water pressure wasn’t strong enough.

      They wound up again on the rear porch, where, this time, instead of kicking at loose slats, Paul got his first real look at the view.

      It stopped him cold.

      It was broader and more expansive than the one from the Memorial Arch, and it had it all: mountains, autumn-colored trees, the ribbon of a river cutting through a small valley. Houses nestled into the hillsides. Wisps of white clouds, a sun that was becoming stronger by the minute. And, to add to the perfection, a single eagle soared overhead, its wings stretched wide, riding the shifting wind currents as if it were the master of the skies.

      His gaze shifted again from the eagle to the panorama before him, the whole thing hitting him like clean, fresh oxygen after being in smog all day. As he drew in a deep breath and exhaled it, something tight inside began to gradually loosen up, leaving room for a sensation that, at first, he had trouble identifying. But the sensation grew stronger and he let it take him over, until he could put a name to it.

      Elation.

      It was as though, while he stood there, his spirit was being cleansed. Garbage out, beauty in.

      God! He was free!

      He felt like shouting it out loud. After four long years behind bars, four years of a living hell, he was no longer a prisoner. Instead, he was way, way, way high up, above all the pain and violence, as unfettered as the eagle circling overhead.

      Unexpected emotion flooded him. To his horror, out of nowhere he felt moisture forming behind his eyes.

      No.

      Gritting his teeth and expending every effort of will he could muster, Paul forced himself to cut off the feeling before it took him over.

      No softness, he reminded himself. He would allow nothing to blunt the edge of his purpose. Nothing.

      He took another moment to regain his composure, during which a disturbing thought struck him: Had Kayla Thorne noticed his reaction? Bad enough to feel weak inside, but to have a witness? Unacceptable. He slanted his gaze over to where she stood, half a yard to his right, also taking in the view. She seemed composed, but the edges of her mouth were turned down, and even in profile, he could tell she was concentrating on some thought.

      “You can see a lot more from here than you can from the church,” he observed, his voice cracking slightly, hoping the words sounded as casual as he’d wanted them to come out.

      Kayla, her mind a jumble of images and emotions, was waging an inner war with herself. She adored looking out over what she secretly thought of as her hills, but today there was an added dimension to her appreciation: it was as though she were seeing it through the eyes of the man by her side.

      Good heavens, what this must mean to him! In jail, he couldn’t have had anything to stare at but walls and bars, other prisoners, guards. No colors, just grays and drabness. This had to be beyond precious to him.

      Or was it? Was she, once again, letting her imagination run away with her, filling in, providing the missing pieces to a man who chose to remain inscrutable? Was he the kind of person who truly appreciated nature’s colors and the infinity of sky overhead? If he wasn’t, then why was she trying to make him into that man? After all, if she was hiring a handyman, all she needed to know about him was if he could do the work.

      Which was when she realized she’d done an abrupt about-face. She’d changed her mind. Or he’d done it for her. It didn’t matter. After he answered a few questions, she was going to offer him the job.

      So much for absolutely, positively making her mind up, she thought, disgusted with herself. She was a wuss.

      Hank came around the side of the house and joined them on the porch, a small toolbox in his grip. “I got to take off, Miz Thorne. So, what do you think? Will my new man do?”

      She told herself she was in charge, that no matter how tall or broad or menacing—or wounded—Paul Fitzgerald might be, he had no power over her. Turning her head and meeting his silver-gray gaze directly, Kayla said, “I need to ask you a few questions first.”

      “Ask away.”

      “Do you ever smile?”

      As though she’d surprised him, there was the briefest suggestion of softening around his mouth, then the flinty look returned to his eyes. “When I have something to smile about.”

      “Well, I don’t do jokes.”

      He cocked an eyebrow. “That’s a shame. I could use a good laugh.”

      Another man might have said those words with some irony, or even as an invitation. But there was not a hint of amusement in his words; his face remained expressionless.

      “You sure could,” she agreed, thinking—like the utter fool she was—that she would make him smile if she died trying. Why it was important to her, she had no idea.

      “And you have experience?” she asked. “I mean with old houses, not just new ones?”

      “Yes. In my former life, on weekends, I was part of a crew that renovated historical homes.”

      “What were you in jail for?” she continued. “Even though you were innocent,” she added quickly, still not sure if she totally trusted that assessment. If there was smoke, there was usually fire.

      He didn’t respond for a moment; instead, his eyes grew hooded again and his nostrils flared, letting her know she’d hit a sensitive area.

      Well, too bad.

      “I mean, if you were accused of being a rapist or a murderer,” she added, her chin jutted out to let him know she wouldn’t be browbeaten, even if the old trembling inside had started up again, “you know, bodily harm kind of thing, well then, I think you can understand that I’m not too nuts about you working here. Even if you were innocent.”

      It was a reasonable question, Paul knew it and acknowledged it, but still, he had to tamp down the fury roiling in his gut. He gave himself a moment before he spoke. “I was accused of taking payoffs.”

      “Paul here used to be a cop,” Hank chimed in. “A good cop, Miz Thorne, decorated and all. Made detective. But there were some corrupt officers in that precinct. You know, taking bribes and selling dope they’d confiscated. Maybe you read about it, a few years back. It was in Albany, the precinct near the capitol buildings? The cops and the drug ring?”

      “Oh, yes,” she said, nodding.

      “See, Paul didn’t like what was going on, told them to cut it out or he’d turn them in. So they set him up.”

      “And you know this, how?”

      “Paul