She shrugged. "Then don't talk so loud."
"I'm not going to hurt you. I just wanted to ask you a question."
"Ask."
He peered behind her. "Is he here?"
"He? Who?"
"He's staying here with you, isn't he? I heard someone was staying with you."
"No one is staying with me," she answered sharply, and then realized she had revealed she was alone. "Only Connie," she amended.
His smile was smug. "Connie or Howard?"
She should shut the door, but her temper flared. "For the last time, Howard isn't interested in me. Now go home."
He grabbed the storm door and jerked on it. "I'm not going home until you talk to me. You owe me."
Fear clutched at her throat. "How do you figure I owe you anything?"
"Why did you tell Howard about the books?"
"I didn't tell Howard or anyone else anything about you. Now go away or I'll call the police."
His eyes turned cold. "Yeah, you do that. If you put me in jail again, when I get out there won't be a safe place for you. Remember that. I'll go, but this isn't over." He turned and walked stiffly to his car. The engine roared and his tires squealed down the street.
She stared after him. Anyone could have told the police about the books. Why would he suspect Howard? She hadn't said anything to anyone, not even Connie. All this attention from Howard could be due to a guilty conscience. Maybe Howard had been involved in an investigation. Maybe he knew something and that was why he picked up Connie that night. She shut the door. It was like Allen to think only of himself. He didn't even mention her family. Her throat constricted and she pushed the thought from her mind. Back into the fuzzy recesses of her mind she crawled - back where it was safe.
The sun got up before she did the next morning. Once up, she cleaned the house and threw a few clothes into a soft bag. Things were getting complicated here and the mountains were calling. She wandered around the house with a foreboding that this was the last time she would see it. Finally she pulled the door shut and locked it. In the garage, she paused at the old car. It was the first time she had even looked at it since the wreck. The letter from the auto insurance company lay abandoned on the kitchen cabinet. She should be looking for a replacement vehicle, but having another car in the garage would only be a reminder that there was no one left to drive it. Maybe when she got back she could replace her old one. As the garage door lifted, sunlight reflected off the polish she and her siblings had applied that last day of their lives.