Free Hidden Motive by Hannah Alexander

gloom.
    â€œWho is it?” he snapped.
    â€œYour roomie. Paul Murphy.” Murph wished he could get out of the clothes he was wearing and get comfortable, but that didn’t look like a possibility for the near future. He noticed that Simmons braced himself up on one elbow, watchful, alert.
    â€œYou headed somewhere in particular?” Murph asked.
    â€œNo, I just hopped on the bus for a joyride,” Simmons snapped. “What do you think?”
    â€œSo where are you headed?” Murph kept his voice conversational, blaming the man’s irritability on fatigue.
    â€œHome to Fayetteville,” Simmons said at last. “My mother’s dying in the hospital there, and my sisters called me yesterday to tell me to hurry.” Simmons still sounded resentful, almost belligerent, and Murph wondered if he was telling the truth.
    â€œI’m sorry to hear that,” Murph said. “Maybe this ice will clear up and we can get you on your way before long.”
    â€œAnd you?” Simmons asked. “You and Sable are friendly enough. Could be you were hoping for a lot less company.”
    Murph didn’t reply as he climbed onto the top bunk and lay on his side facing the room. He allowed himself to relax into the pillow, and reached upward for his real source of strength. Lord, you brought me here for a reason. Now please guide me, guide Sable and heal our hearts. Help us depend on you alone…
    He was still hesitant to sleep, but even this dinky bunk bed felt seductively comfortable. He could hear Simmons’s breathing, hypnotic and deep, its rhythm like a metronome, blending with the whisper of the rain outside….

TEN
    A low rumble of thunder burst from the darkness and reverberated through Murph’s chest, jolting him awake. His legs cramped, and he remembered he was in an upper bunk with a Detonics Pocket 9 pistol strapped to his chest so tightly it felt as if it had embedded into his flesh.
    He’d fallen asleep in a room with a man he didn’t trust. The pain reassured him that the gun remained in place. He reached up, feeling the cotton fabric of the shirt he’d rummaged from a box of old clothing in the attic last night. Good. He was covered.
    The rumble came again. It wasn’t Simmons snoring—no sound came from the lower bunk. It couldn’t be thunder, because outside the window an invisible sun had turned the shrouded sky from pale gray to brilliant blue. The storm had passed.
    The rumble became recognizable as the familiar sound of a dog’s growl. Murph tossed back the warm blankets and climbed down from the top bunk. Simmons was already gone.
    Shivering, Murph opened the door to find the German shepherd standing guard three doors down along the unlit hallway. Sable’s room. The dog whirled around with a snarl when Murph stepped out.
    â€œQuiet, boy.”
    Dillon’s pointed ears relaxed.
    â€œWhat is it? Do you need to go outside?”
    Dillon whined and wagged his tail, then trotted over and thrust his wet nose into the palm of Murph’s right hand.
    â€œOkay, but let me get my shoes and socks on. I don’t have as much fur on my feet as you do.” With Dillon shadowing his steps, Murph returned to the bedroom to see if his socks had dried overnight. They hadn’t. He’d have to dry them.
    With shoes and socks in hand, he stepped over to the uncurtained window and looked out. The winter scene stunned him. Eighteen-inch icicles clung to the eaves of the house like sharpened spears. The dim shapes of crystal trees and rock cliffs hovered over the valley, like a picture on an Ozark postcard, all hills and valleys at sharp angles. Every inch was coated in ice.
    Dillon growled again.
    â€œI’m coming.” He trailed downstairs after the dog, who waited patiently for Murph to spread his socks on the hearth.
    Only a few live coals glowed amid the ashes. The temperature in the house must have dropped overnight