Walk Through Fire (Page 41)

Now she had money to buy frames.

So she did.

As he studied the pictures, he saw she was still tight with Justine. If the pictures were anything to go by, it looked like Justine was gay, which would explain a lot. It also looked like she was happy and, since he’d always liked her, he was glad she’d come to terms with what was fucking with her head, gone for it, and found what she needed.

He also saw Dottie was married to a good-looking guy, the man kind of rough but not edgy. And clearly they’d had two kids, boy and a girl.

Then there was Kellie, no man he could see, but it was obvious those three, Millie, Justine, and Kellie, were still tight.

He got more of that as he moved out of the living room, into the hall.

First door to the left, a bathroom, elegant, clean, meticulously decorated.

Second left, a guest bedroom, same as the bath.

First right after the foyer, he found it.

A room with not much in it. Some weights resting on the floor, a treadmill with a towel folded precisely and draped over the bar on it, an attractive, cream media center with a small TV. Books in the shelves. CDs placed in holders that he saw when he looked were arranged in alphabetical order. Same with movie DVDs. Some yoga workout DVDs stacked by the TV.

But it was the closet where it would be.

He opened it and thought he hit pay dirt.

Until he sifted through it and found not one fucking thing.

Tax and other documents carefully organized and crated. Photos of family and friends not frame worthy but methodically packed away. Wrapping paper and other shit like that in easy reach and even that was organized, kid paper, female adult paper, male adult paper, Christmas paper, different colored bows, ribbons. There was luggage stored in that closet and empty boxes for kitchen appliances, breakables, computer equipment she was keeping for reasons unknown since she’d lived there eleven years and probably wouldn’t be moving.

But nothing else. No mess. No keepsakes. Not a fucking thing.

High moved out of that room and into her bedroom, a huge room that took the whole end of the house. It had a small sitting area right through the door with one of those fancy, cushy lounge chairs in a plush, deep pink, a table and lamp, a silver frame with a picture of Millie, Dot, and their parents on the table.

To the left, deeper into the room, a king-sized bed he was now well acquainted with. Feminine ivory covers and sheets with hints of deep pink in its pattern, tons of pillows on the bed. Crystal-based lamps on the side. Carved, expensive-looking bureau. Wood floors with thick rugs.

Picture perfect.

High stood still and took it all in.

Nothing out of place. Bed made. No clothes or shoes thrown around. Hell, even the books and the tubs and bottles on her nightstand were carefully arranged.

Millie, the one he thought was his, was clean.

But she was not tidy.

She didn’t have time to be. She went to school. She worked. She heaped love and attention on him, her family, her friends, his friends.

She walked to bed taking off clothes (if he didn’t take them off for her) in a trail and she didn’t pick that shit up for days.

She’d use something and set it aside when she was done with it, necessitating her asking him where it was and both of them searching for it until they found it—keys, hand lotion, hair brushes, pads of paper with jotted grocery lists.

She was what she called a “soaker,” that being she left the dishes in hot soapy water and came back to them whenever she felt like doing them, saying, “They’re easier to clean that way, wipe right up!”

And she was two steps down from a hoarder. Anything that had the slightest use or meaning to her, she didn’t give it up. She kept it, boxed it away, put it in a basket or bowl or box to come back to it, tacked it up on the wall or put it on the fridge.

She couldn’t live like she’d lived with High if this was how she needed to live. Living like that would drive a person insane if they needed this order and immaculateness. There was no way for three years she could live that lie.

High had to admit, he liked the look of her place in a removed way. He had a dick, so it wasn’t his gig, but it looked good.

It just didn’t look real. It didn’t look like anyone lived here. It looked like a showroom, not a home.

There was no personality.

There was no Millie.

There was nothing and also nothing to go on. It was clear everyone in her life (except Kellie) had moved on, found husbands, lovers, had kids.

But not Millie.

He moved around the room and her master bathroom, opening doors, stepping into her closet.

She was a woman, she had shit, a lot of it.

But it was nothing a million other women wouldn’t have, clothes, shoes, bags, scarves, makeup, jewelry. Even the vibrator in her nightstand was normal and lonely. No other toys. Not that they’d had that shit back in the day, but they’d been young. He hadn’t introduced it to their play even if he’d been thinking about it just to give her something new he knew she’d get off on since she got off on everything he did.

Lost in his thoughts, he wandered down the hall, looking at the walls.

There were pictures of her cuddling her niece and nephew, smiling huge, looking happy at the same time disturbingly sad. Standing with her folks by a Christmas tree.

But not with her crew at a concert. Hanging at a party or a bar. Off on vacation. Goofing around.

He was feeling uneasy when he went through her living room, opening the drawers on her coffee table, exposing nothing but emery boards, tucked away remotes, pens and paper.

He was more uneasy going through her kitchen.

An appropriate amount of wine bottles in her rack. A bottle of vodka in her freezer, mostly full. A very good bottle of tequila and an excellent bottle of scotch in her pantry, the tequila not even opened, the scotch half drunk.