The Officer's Girl by Leigh Duncan Read Free Book Online

brought her head up. People were moving to the corners of the crowded room, gathering beneath the television sets. When she overheardsomeone say there was an update from Miami, she scrambled to join the rest.
    The room quieted as serious-faced television announcers spoke about projected paths and wind speeds. One of them displayed a map of Florida with a red funnel aimed directly at Cocoa Beach. Though the announcers hedged their predictions with “as near as we can tell” and “our best estimate,” they concluded that Hurricane Arlene could still make a last-minute turn. On the screen, the funnel tilted and curved north.
    Stephanie wanted to ask if that meant they could go home. Her question was answered when the screen switched to a reporter who stood against a backdrop of black sky. He ducked when palm fronds sailed past.
    “Stay indoors,” he cautioned.
    Next came a woman who aimed her camera into the darkness where she said trees had fallen. She repeated the warning to stay inside.
    Stephanie watched a replay of the reports. Apparently the Hurricane Center issued updates four times daily. The rest was just fill—excited weathermen standing in gusty rain telling everyone else it was too dangerous to venture outdoors. When the official report began its third replay, she eased her way out of a clump of people who stared at the screen as if in a hypnotic trance.
    She rubbed her throbbing temples. Everyone seemed to know more than she did. It was irritating and it was giving her a headache and headaches always put her in a foul mood. She swept the room looking for a distraction that would lift her spirits, but she was doomed. There was nothing even faintly amusing about her situation…unless the clothes thing counted.
    She had failed the evacuation dress code. Big time. Shewould have to offer a class at Space Tech before the next hurricane struck. Calling it Evacuations for New Hires she would teach, “Avoid all sense of style. Go for the comfort of polyester over linen, stained T-shirts rather than lacy camisoles.” Denim was permitted, but never worn cropped and pocketed and definitely not formfitting.
    She glanced at Brett’s sweatshirt where it lay atop her overnight bag. A mile long and two miles wide, the jersey made perfect evacuation wear. She slipped the gray flannel on over her own shirt. The sweats’ arms and hem dangled nearly to her knees, but she rolled the cuffs to her wrists. Cropped pants and strappy shoes still earned her a C-minus in EW, aka Evacuation Wear, but the sweatshirt was warm and cozy. She even felt her headache ease a bit.
    Five minutes and a few directions later she sat at the registration table holding a cup of hot coffee. She thumped the dull end of a pen against the table’s yellow Formica top and stared at a blank line where she was supposed to provide contact information. The realization that her next of kin were thousands of miles away triggered a wave of vulnerability she hated.
    How had she, an Ohio girl—a city girl—ended up in a hurricane shelter? Her Realtor, that’s how. Stephanie had believed the woman, who’d said she needn’t fear a direct strike. If that wasn’t a lie, the forecasters would claim it was “too close to call.”
    She shook her head before bending to dutifully provide the requested information. The copy of shelter rules looked simple enough. No alcohol, no firearms, no pets, no sex. She looked down at herself, swathed in acres of gray flannel.
    Sex was so not an issue.
    But someone had an issue and from the sound of things, it was serious. Stephanie honed in on an argument takingplace at the entrance where Judy stood with one hand braced against the doorjamb and an unlit cigarette dangling from the other. Her strident voice rose above the general din. “I said that’s not allowed. You can’t bring it in here.”
    Stephanie half expected to see someone at the door toting a gun or a case of liquor. But instead what she saw was a bedraggled