Free Dearly Beloved by Wendy Corsi Staub

until he hears the slow, rhythmic sound of her breathing.
    Closing the door quietly behind him, he tucks the key back into his pocket and moves cautiously across the wooden floor until he’s standing over the bed.
    She’s lying on her side, her brown hair tousled on the white linen pillowcase. Her mouth is slightly open, and he fights the urge to run a gentle finger over those full lips. She should be sound asleep, thanks to the torte, but he doesn’t want to take any chances.
    So he simply looks at her.
    And as he looks, his fingers slip down his belly to the top button of his trousers. He unfastens it, then slowly begins to edge the zipper down.
    Her face, he notes, is much rounder than it used to be. And though she’s wearing a long-sleeved flannel nightgown, he can tell that the arm that’s thrown over her head is chubby.
    It doesn’t matter to him.
    Struggling to remain in control, he gingerly extends his left hand and tentatively pulls the bedspread and sheet away from Sandy’s body. He lowers them to her waist, then pauses to make sure she isn’t stirring. When he’s satisfied that she’s still deeply asleep, he continues pulling the bedding down until her legs, too, are exposed.
    The nightgown is bunched around her hips, revealing white thighs that are full and dimpled. Holding his breath, he moves his left hand to grasp the flannel hem and raise it, past her high-waisted white cotton underwear and the soft rolls of her belly to her heavy, bare breasts that sag almost to her navel.
    Still, she doesn’t move, and he desperately longs to touch her.
    But he can’t.
    Not yet.
    Not tonight.
    His left hand curls into a tight fist and he forces it to fall at his side.
    The fingers of his right hand probe past his open fly and fumble in the layers of his Brooks Brothers boxer shorts until they close over his own hot, hard flesh.
    Staring at Sandy Cavelli’s near-naked body in the bed he strokes himself, lightly at first so that his skin tingles all over.
    His movements become more rapid, more urgent as he nears release, and he bites his lower lip to keep from moaning.
    He closes his eyes.
    Images flash in his mind.
    Past, present, future . . .
    Sandy as she had looked at thirteen, when he had known her—all sweet and awkward and willing to please . . .
    Sandy as she is now, sleeping before him, blissfully unaware of his presence . . .
    And Sandy as she will be tomorrow—her big brown eyes wide with terror, her full lips quivering as she begs him to let her go, her plump body clad in the pure white wedding dress he’s had custom-made for her . . .
    The dress that, after tomorrow, will be stained with her blood.

Chapter 3
    O vercome by stark, black terror, Jennie runs for her life.
    Someone is chasing her through the Colonial Mall in Boston—someone she can’t see or hear, yet she knows he’s there, closing in behind her. The wide corridors are eerily dark and deserted, silent except for the echo of her pounding footsteps and desperate panting.
    She’s looking for someplace to hide, for an open shop where she can duck behind the clothing racks or underneath the cashier’s counter. But every store she passes is closed, the security gates lowered and padlocked.
    Panicked, Jennie pushes on, dogged by the knowledge that her time is running out.
    He’s going to get me, she tells herself frantically. There’s no escape.
    Suddenly, just as she feels him looming behind her, just as clammy fingers grab her throat, the air is pierced by a shrill ringing sound.
    Jennie sits straight up in bed, gasping and looking around. She instinctively reaches for her travel alarm clock on the nightstand and pushes the button on top to still the jangling bell.
    Where am I?
    She blinks and gazes from the lilac-sprigged wallpaper to the red-brick fireplace to the lace-curtained window that reveals only rain-splattered glass and a patch of gray sky.
    Tide Island. The inn.
    She takes a deep breath and releases it, then runs a