Michael sat in the car back outside the Red Door Inn.
The jangling in his mind so loud that it hurt.
Any number of ways this Christmas could unfold for him now.
One a brand-new option, the most tempting by a million miles. Drive straight back to Shiloh, figure out which was Liza’s window and throw snow up at it, then persuade her to drive back to Boston with him, and to hell with Christmas.
And to hell with Whirlwind.
This evening had changed everything. And nothing.
He might feel differently, but he should have recognized that back at the start of the month when she’d tried approaching him and he’d rejected her so violently.
And he should, of course, have realized that she might be here – though would knowing that have made any difference to his decision-making? He doubted it, still hiding as he had been behind his irrational shield of anger.
Too late now.
Blaming Liza Plain had been unfair, disproportionate and unfounded. She had yearned to become a journalist as he’d striven to become a teacher. Good and bad in both professions. And zero justification for his behavior toward her.
Not as wrong, though, as what he’d done to her tonight.
Spending time with her, opening up to her about the past.
Kissing her.
Unforgivable on so many levels.
There’d been no one since Louise, and Lord knew he’d had little enough to offer her, but even if he could get out of this mess now, he had less than nothing to offer Liza.
Nothing but bleakness with a screwed-up ex-con with suicidal tendencies.
Though maybe life might not be nearly as bleak with a woman like Liza.
‘It would be,’ he said.
Because he was the same man he had been a few hours ago.
A loser.
Besides which, he was not going to run out on Whirlwind. Not now.
Not that Reaper would let him if he tried.
So, depending on how things panned out, he might be back in prison before New Year’s.
Or maybe the morgue.
Until tonight, he’d have figured the latter the best option.
Now he wasn’t quite as certain.
Liza was in bed. She hadn’t closed the drapes and it was snowing lightly again, casting patterns on the closet door opposite the window, flakes settling whole on the glass like small design miracles before they dissolved.
Like the promise of the evening just past.
Michael Rider was keeping Liza awake.
His history, so much of it tragic and disturbing.
And the kiss, which had set off something she hadn’t felt in a long time, perhaps ever. And even before that, in the bar, she’d definitely been feeling that connection again.
Though it wasn’t really that or even the kiss preying on her mind now.
It was his asking her, repeatedly, to leave the village.
It was the intensity of that, its oddness, with no explanation given except: ‘Shiloh’s a rotten place, Liza.’
She might understand that from his perspective, but it was most certainly not enough to make her abandon her grandfather for the holidays now that she was actually here; besides which, Michael’s past hardly qualified him as the most reliable man in Rhode Island.
Liza sighed, turned on her side, closed her eyes.
‘Merry Christmas,’ she said.
The drapes in Reaper’s room at the Shiloh Inn were three-quarters closed, the bedside lamp still on, the occupant of the bed lying tidily, as was his habit, in the center of the mattress, arms straight down by his sides.
He wished that Isaiah had not come to Shiloh tonight. Had not made contact with that young woman.
He knew a little about Liza Plain – knew something about every person present in the village tonight.
His head ached, and his chest, but his pain level in general was nowhere near its worst. His medication working for now, and no sense in mulling over tomorrow.
On the bedside table, four bottles of tablets and a water glass.
Beside them, a gold cross on a long chain. A substantial thing.
Not his. Something borrowed.
For a special occasion.
Revelation.
Reaper’s eyes closed, but his lips moved as he murmured something.
The same word over and over.
‘Soon.’
In Woonsocket, Michael was tossing and turning.
No sleep for him this night. Perhaps no sleep ever again, he thought, not even eternal rest. Damnation more probable.
The kiss still warming him, its folly still goading him, fear uppermost in his mind.
Of tomorrow.
He closed his eyes again, sick with fatigue.
Emily’s face appeared, laughing, happy, then disappeared, Liza there instead, her lovely blue eyes filled with confusion.
Another face blotted her out, of a man he’d found hanging at Garthville.
Worst thing he’d ever seen.
Michael opened his eyes, shuddering, tilted his head toward the window and stared out into the night.
Thought about Revelation.
‘Not long now,’ he said.