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WHISPERS AT MIDNIGHT
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Ratings and Book Reviews 2 20 star ratings 2 reviews. Overall rating 4. Yes No Thanks for your feedback! Report as inappropriate. Tucking it inside her purse, she scribbled her name, picked up her bag and headed back out into the overheated night. Unsurprisingly, there were only two other cars in the parking lot besides the Taurus. At this time of night, Benton was, by and large, asleep. In that, Benton was sort of like her. You know, maybe we could move to Atlanta, she said to the dog as she opened the car door and slid in behind the wheel.
At the thought, which had just popped into her head out of nowhere, she felt an unfamiliar glimmer of excitement. The dog, which had settled into the passenger seat, made a soft sound and came to its feet, watching her with a sudden fixed intensity that caused her to glance at it twice. The dog was clearly a Twinkies junkie too. Holding the package one-handed, Marsha ripped it open with her teeth as she drove out of the lot.
She took a bite—it was so good she thought she might die—then broke off a piece and passed it to the dog. The road was deserted, a narrow ribbon of black losing itself in the deeper blackness of the rural countryside as it led out of town. The Taurus could have been alone in the universe, she mused as she braked.
This little three-stoplight town—was it really the best she could do in life? As she took another bite of the Twinkie, her head was suddenly full of thoughts of Atlanta.
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She could make a whole new—. She sensed rather than saw it, felt rather than heard it: a movement in the backseat. The dog, scuttling backward so that its tucked-in tail was pressed up against the door, began to bark hysterically, its eyes fixed on something over her shoulder. Her heart leaped. Instinctively she started to glance around—and an arm whipped across her neck from behind. Giving a scared little cry that was almost immediately choked off, she grabbed at it with both hands.
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Her nails clawed desperately at sweaty, hairy male flesh. The smell—the smell—she remembered that smell. The sharp point of what she guessed was a knife pricked the skin below her ear. She went abruptly still. Eyes widening, she felt the warm slide of liquid down the side of her neck and realized that he had drawn blood. Gasping for air against the brutal hold that felt like it was crushing her throat, she broke into a cold sweat. The hair stood up on the back of her neck.
Everything—the barking dog, the changing stoplight, the night itself—receded as she realized who was in her backseat.
The dog backed away, its white teeth showing in a near-silent snarl. The man looked at it with hate. It should be dead. Stunned, it had bounced off the windshield and dropped onto the seat beside him, landing on its side but struggling to get up, its feet feebly paddling the air as if it were trying to run.
By the time he had Marsha under control again, its bloody little body had been limp. For a moment, as it continued to snarl and back away, he contemplated just turning around and leaving it. But still, it was a loose end.
Once upon a time he had made the biggest mistake of his life by erring on the side of restraint. Trying to sound pleasant, he crouched, snapping his fingers. The dog shivered and tucked its tail between its legs, watching him but keeping a safe distance. Giving up after a few more tries, he had a thought and went back to the car to retrieve the Twinkie Marsha had been eating. Leaning in, he grabbed it. Then, Twinkie in hand, he headed back toward the dog. For a moment he froze. The night was dark as Hades, the nearest house was unoccupied, and the chances of anybody hearing the damned animal were slim.
But still the sound grated at him, made him jumpy, had him looking all around. Shut up, he ordered, then as it kept barking he lost his head and lunged threateningly at it. The dog jumped away, barking even more shrilly. This is stupid, he thought, and threw the Twinkie at it. Then he got into the car and floored the gas, sending showers of dirt shooting skyward as he did his best to run the ugly little thing down.
Yelping, it dodged and scuttled away, scooting under a fence as he sent the Taurus roaring after it. He slammed on the brakes just in time to keep from hitting the fence, cursing as the dog disappeared in a sea of tall corn. So it got away, he told himself savagely as he nosed the Taurus back onto the road a little while later. So what? It would probably be dead by morning.