By doing so, she’d given him an opportunity to force himself on her if he’d been of a mind to. No, they had to be wrong to suspect him of molesting Mrs. Driscoll in any way. He’d done nothing in the manner that Sheriff Amos’s question had suggested, nothing to make her fear that he meant her harm, or that his intentions were dishonorable.

The worst he’d done to her was to make it impossible for her not to think about those moments when they had touched. She feared that seeing him again, even in those circumstances, had prolonged the time it was going to take for her to forget them.

* * *

The house was as Irv had described: rambling. It appeared to have been broken apart at one point and pieced back together incorrectly. Even more uniquely, it backed up to a sheer wall of limestone.

But it was actually better than Laurel had expected. “Can we see inside?”

Irv wasn’t completely sold on the idea of moving into town, but he turned off the truck’s motor, grumbling, “Landlord said he’d leave the key under the porch in a sardine tin.”

They found the key. The front door’s hinges screeched when Irv pushed it open. The interior smelled like mildew with an undertone of dead mouse, but Laurel reasoned that if the front windows were open, the southerly breeze would dispel the odor.

Flanking the central hallway were a parlor to the left and a staircase to the right. Laurel stepped into the parlor. The wallpaper was shabby and stained, but it had tall windows and a pretty Victorian carved wood spandrel that demarcated the parlor from the dining room. A door on the far side of it led into the kitchen.

“The icebox is the old-fashioned kind,” Irv said. “You’d have to have ice delivered. But the stove’s electric.” Gesturing to the rusty faucets in the sink, he added, “It’s tapped into the city water. You won’t have to pump no more.”

“Is there a bathroom?”

Irv led her to it. Obviously a late addition, it was tucked under the staircase. The fixtures needed a good scouring, but she was delirious at the thought of no longer having to use an outhouse.

“Upstairs?”

“Two bedrooms and a sleeping porch. Some of these steps are rotted, so be careful.”

The front bedroom faced south. Sunlight shone through the dirty windows, from which she could see the tallest buildings of downtown. Having been isolated for months, the thought of having a view of nearby civilization was comforting. She could make this a pleasant room for Pearl and her to share.

The sleeping porch was a screened-in, long and narrow space. She would have to think on how best to utilize it.

Beyond it was a small, claustrophobic room that had only one east-facing window. The ceiling slanted downward to meet the far wall. “This’ll do me fine,” Irv said. “I don’t require much space.”

“But you’ll have to climb the stairs,” Laurel said. “That won’t be good for your hip. I have a better idea.”

She led him back downstairs and into the kitchen. “Build a wall on this end of the kitchen to enclose the keeping room. It has a window. It would easily convert into a bedroom.”

He scowled. “Where’d you get that notion?”

“From you. You shouldn’t have lied about dividing one room into two for a family from Waco.”

He swore under his breath, but Laurel could tell that the idea appealed to him. The new room would give him access to the rest of the house without having to use the stairs. The back door leading from the kitchen to the outside would also enable him to come and go freely.

She pointed that out to him, then stood by waiting hopefully as he mulled it over. For an eternity. “If it’s a matter of money—”

“It ain’t.”

“I plan to pitch in.”

“I told you, I ain’t destitute.”

“I still have my money.”

“Keep it. I owe you this.”

“How so?”

“It was my boy who skipped out on you.”

Whenever the subject of money came up, they argued, and Irv was cranky for days after. She supposed it was a blow to his pride for her to question him about finances.

But she suspected his obstinance on the matter went deeper than that. The guilt he felt over leaving Derby in an orphanage weighed even more heavily on him since the suicide. It was too late for him to make restitution to his son. Instead, he had dedicated himself to taking care of Pearl and her.

She was strongly opposed to the idea of being accountable or indebted to anyone, even to her well-meaning father-in-law, but she didn’t want to scotch renting the house by quarreling with him now. “When can we move in?”

He hooked his thumbs under his suspenders and ran them up and down as he took a slow look around.

“Well?” Laurel said.

“I’m taking stock.”

“You’re stalling.”

“We don’t have any furniture.”

“We don’t have any now!” she exclaimed, causing Pearl to stir. “Why are you so opposed to this, Irv?”

“I ain’t.”

“Good. We’ll move in tomorrow.”

Before he could say anything further, she turned on her heel and left through the front door. By the time he had followed, locked the door, and returned the key to its hiding place, she was in the car—in the driver’s seat.

He hobbled around to the passenger side and opened the door. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Pearl’s asleep. You can hold her while I drive.”

“You need a lot more practice.”

“I’ll have five miles’ worth after driving home. Now get in.”

Fourteen

Thatcher was confined to the jail cell throughout the day, although after deputies returned, he was allowed two visits to the lavatory. Harold grudgingly provided him with a bar of soap and a towel so he was able to wash up.

He heard people entering and leaving the building where briefings were held in the main room, but for most of the day the door at the end of the hall had remained closed, so he was unable to hear everything that was being said.

The telephone rang frequently. He supposed updates on the search for Mrs. Driscoll were being called in to Sheriff Amos, but Thatcher didn’t sense a thunderbolt from any of the incoming information.