Page 74 of The Woman Who Couldn't Scream
“Merry did?”
“Yes, dear.” She hated when Albert played stupid. “When Nauplius Brassard died, his wife, Helen, disappeared. We know who that really was.”
“Merry Byrd.”
“The question is—does Benedict realize that Helen and Merry are one and the same?”
“If he’s found her, it’s only a matter of time.” Albert pointed at Rose. “Better take care of that.” Turning away, he returned to his work, muttering darkly as he traced down the discrepancies Rose had found.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Benedict and Merida started out slowly, warming up, their feet pounding the sidewalk, dodging overgrown branches and a bicycle left lying on the sidewalk, avoiding barking dogs. He let her set the route. They ran a mile through Virtue Falls, then turned onto the well-worn path along the cliffs above the Pacific. There he began to stretch his legs, taking longer strides, pushing her harder than her usual pace. For her, it at once became a contest, one she couldn’t stand to lose.
When she began to pant, he slowed. “I forget. You’re short.”
She held out her hands, using them like a selfie stick, so he could see her talk. “I’m petite.”
“Right. Petite.”
She pointed down the steep path to the beach.
He said, “Sure. Good idea,” and gestured for her to lead the way.
She loved this part of the run, leaping down the slippery trail like a mountain goat. She loved more that she left him behind.
At the bottom, she stopped, placed her hands on her knees and got her breath. When he came up behind her, she straightened and hopped along the rocks toward the pilings of the old dock.
Behind her, he called, “Great food last night.”
She nodded.
“Good kiss.”
She stopped, turned, signed, “Not a great kiss?”
“You need practice.”
She shot him the universal gesture of fuckoffery.
He laughed. He looked tired, as if he’d been up all night, but he sounded happy.
She returned to her rock-hopping. She was happy, too. The day had dawned with a rare blue sky, the air was cool, the ocean rolled and sparkled, she was with Benedict and her revenge was coming to fruition. Right now, the fact that she was revenging herself onhimseemed irrelevant.
She jumped down onto the damp sand, then climbed onto the pilings and did her karate-movie poses, balancing on one leg and then the other. He watched for a few moments, then jumped onto a piling, wavered and fell off into the sand.
Clutching her side, silently laughing, she fell off, too.
“Really? Laugh at me?” He crawled toward her. He was on the prowl.
She crawled away. It was stupid, playful—she could have stood up and run. Instead she got sand in her shoes, scoured the skin off her knees, and when he caught her hips, found herself toppled onto her back, looking up at him silhouetted against the sky.
She thought he would be laughing. He wasn’t. Helookedat her, searching her face, trying to peer beneath the features, seeking the truth.
He’d know the truth soon enough.
But not now. She wanted to live. A distraction. She needed a distraction.
Reaching up, she twisted her hands in his sweaty T-shirt, pulled him down on her—and practiced her kissing.
