Misery Loves Company by Rene Gutteridge Read Free Book Online Page B

smile.
    Jules whispered, “You spied on me?”
    He laughed. “I don’t have to spy on you. You bare your soul every day, don’t you? For all the world to see?”
    Jules glanced at the ceiling. “You read my blog?”
    “Isn’t that the point? That people read it? Don’t you hope they get to know you?”
    “But . . .” Him?
    “You’ve been disappointed by my last three books.”
    Jules took a deep breath. That was what this was about?Her mind scrambled to remember the words she’d used to show her discontentment with his latest work. They didn’t seem harsh at the time, but as she stood in front of him now, her review did seem . . . regrettable. “It’s not personal,” she mumbled.
    “It’s not personal for whom?” he asked. “You? Or me?”
    Neither. She’d critiqued it as a piece of literature. She put her trembling hands behind her. “I didn’t mean for the review to hurt you.”
    “If you’d known I’d be reading it, you would have perhaps chosen your words more carefully?”
    Jules’s nostrils flared at the insanity of the entire situation. She found herself growing bold. “I actually chose my words quite carefully. I always do.”
    “So you meant every word?”
    How was she to play this? She studied his eyes. There was a gentle, wise veil to them. “Yes. I meant every word.” She pressed her lips together and kept eye contact. “And if you must know, I am not a fair-weather fan. I am still as loyal as ever.”
    He blinked as if he was not expecting that answer. Then he turned. “Get yourself presentable. Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes.”
    He closed the door and did not lock it. Jules let out a breath and a cry, covering her mouth as she rewound the conversation in her head.
    “Jason . . .” Tears filled her eyes and spilled over. “You’re not going to believe what is happening to me.”
    Near the window was a closet with a sliding wooden door. Inside, she found an array of nice winter clothing, ranging from sweaters and shawls to slacks. No jeans or sweats. The shoes she’d worn to the grocery store were neatly placed on the floor next to some other shoes she didn’t recognize.
    She changed in the bathroom   —a cold, overly tiled, suffocating room. Inside the medicine cabinet were a new toothbrush, toothpaste, mouthwash. But on the counter she found another toothbrush that appeared to have been used and half a tube of toothpaste. Next to it was a hairbrush, hair tangled around it. She picked it up and for the first time noticed herself in the mirror. Her eyes were bloodshot and she looked pale and drawn. It reminded her of how she’d looked the morning after she learned Jason had been shot to death. She remembered waking up after maybe thirty minutes of sleep and staring in the mirror. She didn’t even recognize the woman who stared back at her.
    But something told her that she’d better look the part of a pulled-together woman, because the man holding her had to be unraveling in some way. If she seemed composed, maybe she could talk some sense into him. Or better yet, run for her life.
    She set the brush down. One thought kept scrolling through her head: Patrick Reagan read her blog. It never occurred to her that he might. Would she have said things differently? Had she been unintentionally cruel?
    She washed her face and then noticed, on a small vanity near the tub, a beautiful silver watch set out as if on display.She picked it up and marveled at all the diamonds. If she wanted to be on time for dinner, maybe she should wear it. But the time had stopped, at twelve o’clock on the dot. It seemed odd to her that she didn’t even know what time it was.
    Turning toward the door of the bedroom, she walked with weak knees. Somehow she was going to have to gather the strength to face what was on the other side. Because the writing on the wall made her fairly sure his intentions were to truly terrify her.

    His shift had ended two hours earlier, with a lecture