Free The Haunting of Maddy Clare by Simone St. James Page A

some sort of sound. Mr. Ryder opened his eyes, and lowered the flannel, slowly, I thought—he seemed to force himself to come back from wherever he had been, to come away from whatever private and lonely hell of pain he had inhabited and return to the here and now. He turned and looked at me, registering me, pressed back against the wall, my lips parted, a look of horror undoubtedly on my face. A swift expression came into his eyes—anger, and, underneath it, a terrible despair. Our eyes held for a long moment.
    “I’m sorry,” I murmured.
    He reached out and closed the door.
    I could not breathe. I should knock—speak to him—tellhim—what? I had seen something so intensely private to him, he would likely never forgive me. In that one moment I had opened the door, it seemed probable Mr. Ryder would hate me forever.
    I made my way back to my bedroom, quickly undressed, and lay on my bed in my slip, hugging my knees to my chest. Yes, he would hate me now. Despite our brief acquaintance, and our mutual antipathy, I still felt the loss of it. Even more, I felt the loss to him, of whatever horrible thing he had gone through, to receive such scars on his body. I felt the loss to a strong young man, to his life and vitality, to be injured so.
    But more, even more than those things, I felt a keen loss at our misunderstanding. Because he had turned and seen me at exactly the moment of my first surprise, and my expression must have been one of, he would think, revulsion. Though he did not like me, it had cut him to the quick to have a woman look at him in horror. It would cut any man. Even I knew that.
    And as I lay there, I knew he had misunderstood. When I closed my eyes, I could see the image of him burned behind my eyelids. When I opened them again, I could see nothing but him, standing before me. There was a knot deep in my stomach, bruised and painful, a deep tug of longing that would not go away. Again I saw him turn to look at me, and I knew the longing would never be gone. I was doomed to it. For there was no way to convince him that, with all his scars, the terrible truth was that he was still the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

Chapter Eight

    T he next day, as planned, we interviewed Mrs. Clare and Mrs. Macready. We used the inn’s private room again; it was here that my secretarial skills came into use, as Mr. Gellis conducted the interviews, and I sat nearby, transcribing everything in my tidy shorthand. Mr. Ryder sat in the corner of the room, again out of both my sight and the interviewees’, and listened. If he had any opinion of my taking on the task he would normally do, he did not voice it.
    I could not look at Mr. Ryder, and he did not look at me, but I was painfully aware of his presence. He wore a white shirt this morning, under a corduroy jacket of deep brown that looked well-fitted and well-worn. He wore no tie, of course—he had not worn one the previous day either, and I had the impression it was not his usual practice. He had not shaved, and his jaw was dark. This was all I allowed myself to see before I turned away.
    Mr. Gellis, in contrast, was trim and shaven, his shirt crisp and pressed, his hair neatly combed. He sat calm in his chair, thepicture of utter focus as the lengthy interviews went on. I was starting to see how clever he was—with his clean good looks, he could hide a skillful interview behind the blandness of polite conversation. In essence, he could efface himself when needed. One could know this only if one had seen him at other times, when his passionate obsession was roused, or when he was somehow painfully conflicted, as he had seemed when smoking a cigarette with Mrs. Barry. He had a great deal of charm and charisma, too, when he wished—charisma he could just as easily tamp down and put away.
    Mrs. Clare came to be interviewed first. She gave Mr. Gellis a look of curiosity that was tinged unmistakably with approval. “You didn’t mention in your letter that you