Darknight(24)

I wanted to tell him I hadn’t been thinking that at all, but it would have been a lie. “Okay,” I said, then added, “Sorry I don’t have anything to give you for Christmas. I haven’t been able to get out much lately.”

“Very funny,” he remarked, and then gave me a half-wave and headed out the door. I’d noticed that he never put on an overcoat when going straight to the gallery, so there must have been an inside hallway or something that connected the apartment to the shop on the ground floor.

Unlike the tamales, the dinner of duck with port cherry sauce and wild rice I had planned wasn’t something that was going to take up my entire day. And even though I knew that technically I wouldn’t be alone on Christmas Eve, I still had a very long stretch ahead of me with not much to do in it.

Although I wished I could push the thoughts away, I couldn’t help brooding over what was happening back in Jerome. Yes, the solstice and Yule were big deals, but we sort of let Yule blend into Christmas in a week-long excuse for parties and dinners, and caroling along the town’s steep streets. Cheerful lights and Aunt Rachel’s melt-in-your-mouth butter cookies, and standing rib roast on Christmas Eve. Would they be doing any of that this year, or were they too busy worrying about me?

No, I didn’t think that would be the case. I was their prima, but my not being there shouldn’t be a reason to keep them from enjoying their holiday. They had to be worried, not knowing exactly what was going on with me, and I realized I’d been selfish to not stay in contact more. Connor had already basically told me it was all right for me to use his laptop. So shouldn’t I use it now to give my family the only thing I could give them this holiday — the knowledge that I was okay?

I went upstairs then, to Connor’s room. Just like the last time I’d entered it, the place was scrupulously clean, the bed made, no dirty clothes strewn around the way I’d always imagined the room of a guy who lived on his own must look like. The laptop still sat on the table, power cord connected.

Once again, I knew an email to Aunt Rachel wouldn’t get read right away, but this time I didn’t let that stop me. I went to Gmail and opened up a new message, then wrote quickly, Aunt Rachel, I’m not sure when you’ll get this, but I just wanted to wish you and everyone back home a very happy holiday. I don’t know if you’ll believe this or not, but I’m being treated well (except for not being able to leave). I’m safe. I know that sounds crazy, but I really think I am. Love you all. Angela.

I sent it as soon as I was done writing it so I wouldn’t have second thoughts. Maybe it would upset her to hear how I was trapped here. And maybe she would think that the Wilcoxes had made me write the email. No way to prove that, so I could only hope she’d detect the truth in my words.

My gaze strayed to the Facetime icon in the dock at the bottom of the laptop’s screen. Aunt Rachel didn’t have any iThings, as Sydney liked to call them, so using Facetime to try to get in touch with her directly wouldn’t work. Adam had an iPhone, though….

On second thought, that probably wasn’t such a good idea. Things were strange enough between Connor and me right now that I didn’t even know what I could say to Adam. I certainly couldn’t admit I was developing feelings for Connor, feelings no McAllister should have for a Wilcox. Saying anything on the subject would only hurt Adam. True, I could ignore the topic completely, but Adam would want to know where I was, who I’d been staying with. Once it got out that the “Chris Wilson” he knew was actually Connor Wilcox….

Bad idea. Bad, bad idea.

But Sydney had an iPhone. Things were probably crazy at her house, since I knew her parents generally hosted the family parties because their house was the largest in their extended family. Her father was an engineer at the cement plant in Clarkdale, and her mother a supervising nurse at the local medical center; they were doing all right, especially by local standards. Cottonwood, Arizona, wasn’t exactly Beverly Hills when it came to the average income of its residents. However, I also knew that Sydney was not exactly the same whiz in the kitchen I was, and tended to stay out of the way after the obligatory table-setting and bathroom cleaning was done. Anyway, it was worth a try.

I entered Sydney’s email address in the Facetime app and waited, unconsciously crossing my fingers while it made the odd little ringing sound as it attempted to connect. Just when I was sure she wasn’t going to answer, that her mother had made her put her phone away so she could play nice with the relatives, she picked up, her face sort of swinging into view as she angled the phone toward her.