In the solitary comfort of his overstuffed armchair, hours after the picnic, Bryan allowed himself to look at his hand, the hand where she touched him. Not a man given to imaginary sensations, he tried to ignore the fact that the tips of his fingers still tingled where her fingers brushed them. Her eyes, deep and wounded, haunted him.
Doesn’t mean a thing. Everyone else has simply lost their minds. He looked at his fingers again. She’s hiding something. He snapped on the television set.
“From his hospital bed today, Richard Bennett, wounded in the shooting spree that took the life of seventy-five-year-old businesswoman Lydia Brandt ten days ago, made a plea for his fiancé, Shara Brandt, to come forward. Miss Brandt, twenty-three, is a recent business graduate of Marquette University, and Lydia Brandt’s granddaughter.”
The next face on the screen was Richard’s. Bryan wanted to look away, but could not, and everything was forgotten as he watched the man he hated make a speech.
“Shara, honey, come home from wherever you are. We all know it was an accident, you didn’t mean to do it. Please come home so the people who love you can get you help.”
The picture melted back to the news anchor. “In an off screen interview this afternoon, Mr. Bennett did say that Miss Brandt has been under a psychiatrist’s care for several years. Authorities say that Miss Brandt is most likely not a danger to others, but if you should see this person you are to call Crime Stoppers at-” Bryan snapped off the set and stared out the window.
Well of course she’s nuts. She was engaged to him.
He looked down at his hand again, a dark thought dawning on him. Could the most innocent Bethany Elias be Shara Brandt? Is that what she’s hiding?
He reached for the phone, but thought the better of it. I won’t call the police just yet. But I’ll be watching very closely. That’s a promise, Miss Bethany Elias