Sophie’s stubborn heart refuses to budge. It’s a stone in her chest- dead weight- dragging her mood into the gutter. Thomas has sacrificed his entire day to her every whim-- watching romantic comedies when he prefers action; listening to pop when he loves jazz; fixing her hamburgers when he’s a vegetarian.
And yet that stubborn organ won’t listen.
Sophie sifts uncomfortably on the couch next to Thomas and tries to focus on the movie they’re watching and not the gentle strokes of his hand on hers. His light touch is gradually driving her mad.
“You know, it’s crazy,” she announces out-of-the-blue, just as if they’d been holding a conversation.
They hadn’t and Thomas turns politely to listen to her rude interruptions.
“Do you know that Agent Callan believes the person who killed Marie most likely killed Mr. Mac? Some kind of ‘similarities’ or markings- I don’t recall exactly how he said it.”
“I understand,” Thomas says, turning the volume down to hear her better.
“But how would the killer have known? The only people that knew about Mr. Mac were the FBI. I didn’t even tell the family I’m staying with- except one. But I know where he was last night. Or, well, I know he wasn’t there.” She revises, realizing that she really has no idea what Jacks was doing last night.
“Well, people talk . . .”
But Sophie shakes her head. “That’s a really bad idea- where I’m from. You don’t talk. You don’t share anything if you can help it. I just don’t get it. How would he have known?”
Thomas strokes the hair away from her face and tucks it behind her ear. “I wish you would trust me, Elia. Tell me what he’s looking for. Tell me where it is. I can help.”
“I only told them,” she softly asserts again. She feels close to understanding something- something important.
His eyebrow lifts, “Sophie? Are you listening to me? I can help.”
“And you,” Sophie whispers, the words a quiet revelation
Thomas sighs. “And me.”
“You,” Sophie straightens away from his hand. Fear creeps into her eyes. “I told you.” She scoots a little ways away from Thomas’ perch on the couch. Her voice gets tight with panic. “You . . . you killed Mr. Mac?”
He nods slowly, carefully.
“And Marie?”
He shrugs, “It was a job. Nothing more.” Slowly crawling over the distance- like a predator stalking his prey- he pins her squirming body against the soft couch cushions. His voice never loses its eerie, tender quality. “And now, Ms. Mancuso, we must discuss what you have . . . and where.”
YOU ARE READING
Playing Jacks
Mystery / Thriller**Winner: Licking River Writers Contest** After five years away, Jacks returns to reclaim his life- only to find a lush accountant with curves that fill out her clothes living in the apartment over his folks' pool house. Oh, the attraction is there...
