"I'm being thorough."
"You're being an asshole."
"Where were you last night?" He finally looked at her.
"In bed with the Sonics." She gave him the finger and went back to the kitchen.
Cam tap-tapped his pen on his little notepad, his expression so set he was obviously fighting not to explode.
Paige stared at the spot where Britta had been, wanting the energy to go in there and warn her to quit slicing her own throat.
"Could we turn off the soap opera? I'd like to get through this." Sterling leaned forward to stir cream into his coffee. Cam took up his own, undoctored.
Paige raised her mug so the steam warmed her face and finished telling them what everyone had said, collaborating with Britta when she came in with a plate of toast for Sterling-obviously trying to get in Cam's face again.
Give him time, sweetie.
Sterling turned to Paige. "Who else knew you were planning to go back to Seattle? Who knew you weren't?"
"I only told the family I was planning to go. I didn't decide not to go until after they were gone."
"Why'd you change your mind?" Sterling asked, the twang in his voice coming through with soft curiosity.
The gentleness was so unexpected, she drew a blank for a minute, then it came to her. The debt to his mother. The apartment. Oh, shoot. "Because I, um...what time is it?"
Too late to phone and make other arrangements. Did she want to?
"A, um, courier might show up for me," she added.
"On a Sunday?"
She touched her hot forehead, blaming the illness that now had the better of her. What had she been thinking? Where on earth would she go now?
"Paige?" Sterling asked, his fingers against her cheek making her open her eyes.
"I'm okay. I just-" should have made like Dad and ignored that stupid promissory note.
No, she didn't care that the Roys had forgiven it. She still couldn't live with Evelyn Roy having paid for her education.
"I didn't talk to anyone else about my arrangements except my ex."
Sterling pulled his hand away.
"Who?" Cam asked.
"My ex-husband. Anthony Sebastiano." She spelled it. "But he's in Seattle. And he wouldn't set a fire."
"Why tell him?" Sterling asked, back to sounding grim.
She really didn't need this. "I just did. It doesn't matter."
"So to the best of most people's knowledge, you were staying in your father's house indefinitely," Cam said, closing his little notebook and pocketing it. "You're starting to look like a target, Paige."
Chapter Thirty
"No one is trying to kill me. Look, all those things that happened, the break-in and the car? They were-" Paige halted, gave Sterling another one of those uncertain looks, but he wasn't about to stop her saying anything. They needed to get to the bottom of this.
"It was just a misunderstanding between me and the Roys," she continued.
Cam waited, but Paige didn't add anything.
Sterling was about to step in and reveal the whole sordid contents of the family closet, when Cam said, "Your house was just torched."
"That doesn't mean I was a target. What have I done to anyone?" She sat straighter. "Could it have something to do with the audit?" She sounded more annoyed than terrified, which irritated the hell out of Sterling because he was over here bathed in a clammy sweat.
Arson and attempted murder. Christ.
"Perhaps this person feels threatened by something that could be revealed by what you're doing," Cam suggested.
Like what? Sterling rubbed his face. And how would he protect her from this nameless person if she went to Seattle?
"Pancakes are ready." Britta came to the archway with a spatula in her hand.
"I'm not hungry. Do you mind if I shower?" Paige asked Sterling, like she was a first-time guest. Like she hadn't been in there with him three nights ago, soaping the dirtiest parts of him clean.
"It's all yours."
Britta pointed out the bag of clothes she'd left propped against the sofa and Paige peeked in, nodded, then let the quilt fall away as she stood.
It was hard for Sterling to let her out of his sight. He was scared she was going to slip away while he wasn't looking. He wasn't used to being scared of losing a woman.
He rose with restless energy and went hunting for Britta's pancakes.
Cam hovered in the kitchen long enough for the tension to reach critical level, when he, Britta, and Lyle occupied the same space for ninety seconds, then made sure Sterling had his number and left.
Sterling wolfed down four pancakes, watched Paige's nephew eat nine, and was on his feet the minute he heard the bathroom door crack open.
Paige stood in the hallway wearing a shirt with sleeves that left her wrists exposed and a pair of sweatpants that threatened to slide off her hips. Her hair was still damp and her teeth were chattering. "None of the clothes are warm enough."
"I'll give you a sweatshirt." He looked down. "And re-wrap your foot." He herded her, limping, into his bedroom. When he started to tug a sweatshirt down over her head, he saw she was swaying. He nudged her toward the bed. "Sleep. Get better. We'll wrap later."
And talk. That was definitely happening.
~ * ~
She woke disoriented again, in Sterling's bed this time. Through her clothes, she could feel his heat pressed from her shoulder blades to the bottoms of her feet as he spooned around her, the weight of his arm pinning her close.
Someone was standing at the foot of the bed.
"See? She's fine, just sleeping," Lyle said.
"Shit," another male voice said. Anthony?
Paige bolted to sit, flinching from the headache that bounced into place between her eyes. Next to her, Sterling rolled and came up on his elbow, the sheet falling away to expose his bare chest.
Grabbing her glasses, she saw Anthony wore some of his goin'-to-the-country attire: a forest green cashmere sweater draped over a black silk turtleneck, along with five hundred dollar jeans that he'd probably ironed himself.
"You think you're funny?" Anthony said, straightening his own glasses so he could better glare at Lyle.
"It breaks up the boredom of not drinking." Lyle pointed at the bundle Anthony held, and said to Paige, "He wouldn't give me that and leave."
"Your courier?" Sterling murmured, rubbing fingertips into his eyes. His face was clean and shaved. He must have showered before he came to bed.
"Ex meets Next. Kicks like vodka," Lyle said with enjoyment.
"You can leave," Paige told Lyle, fighting the drag of blankets over her clothes to swing her legs to the side of the bed. Her limbs felt weak, disconnected. Stupid fever.
"You sound terrible. And hey, when you walked in on him, he was doing more than sleeping," Lyle said. "I thought you'd appreciate the gesture."
"I don't."
Lyle shrugged and left the room.
Anthony wasn't looking at her. He angled so his back was mostly to the bed, his narrow shoulders pulled back with tension. His flush wasn't all anger, though. There was shame there, too.
She sighed.
"I wasn't about to hand him this," Anthony said, holding up a bundle too big to be a check. He'd brought cash. Of course he'd brought cash, the freak. She couldn't believe one of the things that had attracted her to him was his habit of hoarding money.
"We'll talk outside," she said, leading him down the hall.
"Lyle said you weren't hurt. Why are you limping?"
"Sprained ankle. It's fine."
It was cold out, despite the sunshine, and should have smelled fresh, but the subtle pall of burnt house hung in the air.
She folded her sore foot over her good one as she stood in the damp grass, looking beyond Lyle's huddled cars to the absence of her father's house. It was strange to see Britta's parents' old house, on the far side of the street, from this far away.
"I couldn't not see you after arriving to that." Anthony said in a grim tone. He surveyed the yellow tape and charred mess, then held out the money to her. "Did you need this last night, cara? Your brother runs with a rough crowd-"
"Oh for God's sake! No. Lyle had nothing to do with the fire and the fire has nothing to do with this." She took the bag, but didn't bother checking inside. She knew him well enough to know every last cent she'd asked for was there. "I just wanted to tie up one more loose end before I leave." Saying it aloud made her frown.
"Leave?" Anthony mocked, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his feet. "And this time you really mean it?"
"Good news. We're divorced now. We don't have to have this fight."
He shook his head. "I was never angry about you coming here, cara. I was angry that you wouldn't admit you couldn't stay away. Most of the time it makes you miserable, but it's your crack. You just keep coming back. Why? Because you're a homing pigeon, like Lyle always calls you?"
"He calls me Pigeon because he thinks I'm a sucker, which is true." She coughed, then frowned. "And I no longer have a home to come back to, do I?"