Free Don't Go Home by Carolyn Hart Page B

and arrival and expected departure dates. Room 128, Robert Haws, checked in Tuesday, scheduled to check out Thursday.
    She waited to a count of five, knocked again. No answer.
    She moved to the next even-numbered room, looked at the pad, knocked.
    The door opened. “Bring—Oh.” The thirtyish sandy-haired woman with a peeling nose looked surprised. Behind her a television blared and a boy shouted, “I don’t care. It’s mine. Give it—” The woman swung around. “Roger, hush,” she said and turned apologetically back to Hyla. “Can I help you?”
    Hyla saw a room with two double beds, clothing strewn on chairs, and wet towels wadded in a corner along with a stack of sand buckets. The drapes were open though the night was now dark beyond the glass of the patio door. “Mrs. Carey?” At her nod, Hyla continued, “Officer Hyla Harrison, Broward’s Rock Police. Have you been on your patio this evening . . .”
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    T he air-conditioning was cranked. Dorothy L rested in the curve of Annie’s arm beneath a light cover. The plump cat’s cheerful purr, the warmth of her furry body, made the bed a little less lonely. Annie was comfortable, her shorty nightgown light as froth, but sleep seemed impossible. She could not push away images of the day. Or the night. If Max were here, she could share with him and everything would be better. Finally, to Dorothy L’s dismay, she turned to the edge of the bed and got up. She slipped into house shoes, turned on lights as she went. Downstairs, she poured a glass of milk and zapped one of Max’s incredible peanut butter cookies in the microwave. She carried her snack out on the porch, welcoming the heat and the familiar night sounds, the incessant chatter of the frogs, the distant whoo of an owl, the rasp of the cicadas. She sank onto the soft cushions of the swing, gave a push with her foot. The familiar creak was reassuring. All was well . . .
    Well for her. Not for others this sultry summer night. What was Marian doing tonight? Annie recalled the searing passage in
Don’t Go Home
when Louanne called Buck. But Annie knew the truth. It was Marian who gripped a phone, called her lover; Marian who was unfaithful to her husband, Craig; Marian who cried out in her husky voice, “I waited for you. I waited until dawn.” It was Alex who answered in a light, untroubled tenor, “I didn’t come. I won’t be coming.” “You said we could run away together.” “Thought about it. Not a good idea.” “You said you loved me.” “That’s what I always tell married women. Married women make the best—” “Alex, I left a message for you. I’m pregnant.” “Yeah, you did. I’m sure everything will work out for the best. Won’t Craig be surprised?” The phone went dead.
    Annie knew abruptly that Marian was awake this moment, too.Marian and her son, David, lived in a modest one-story stucco home on
a crooked lane not far from downtown. Marian always joked that she could hop on a bike and be at the
Gazette
in four minutes, sooner than she could drive.
    Annie knew she was pushing away from the reality of Marian’s heartbreak, thinking instead of Marian as she knew her: brusque, funny, acerbic, smart, a mom who went to baseball games and sold popcorn to raise money for uniforms, a mom who was proud of her sandy-haired, freckle-faced, fun kid who struggled with algebra but worked on the school newspaper and wanted to go to Clemson and major in journalism, and an ex-wife who often spoke admiringly of what a great dad Craig was and how he’d started going to AA after David was born and how proud he was of his son.
    Yes, Marian was awake.
    Annie took a last bite of cookie, finished the milk, heard the distant sad cry of a mourning dove, oh-wah-oh-who-who. Perhaps no one else connected