Page 91 of Noble Neighbor
It had broken her to watch the interview Oliver had done; to listen to how he’d slandered her, especially after Senator Randolph’s suspicions of Lathan’s crimes had come to light.
“If the mother knew, the wife most certainly knew,” Oliver had snarled. “Women were killed, and those two could’ve prevented it. If not for their silence, my wife would still be alive, and my son would still have a mother. But no, they hid behind their prominence and ambition and allowed his evil to continue unchecked. May they both burn in hell right beside the monster they protected.”
No, Sunny thought. There was no way Oliver would ever forgive her. Resolute, she kept driving farther away from the beautiful life she and her girls could’ve had.
*
“Five days, ladies. Five excruciating days since she left,” Oliver grumbled, opening the gate, and setting about his task amid the clucking and interfering nuisance of Sunny’s hens.
If someone had told him six months ago he’d start a freezing, snow-laden day cleaning a chicken coop, he’d have laughed himself into a stupor.
Yet here he was, raking over a layer of shit and shavings covering the floor, having aconversationwith the ornery birds.
It had been a spur of the moment decision. The morning after Sunny left, he’d noticed a truck pull into her drive. He rushed over, only to find Emory, the man Sunny had hired months ago to maintain her yard, busy in the coop. She’d left him a message, Emory said, adding the daily task to his routine activities.
Oliver, in a momentarily lapse of sanity, insisted on taking over the chore. Doing the daily task brought him closer to the woman he loved and fiercely missed.
Besides, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do with his life. Any inspiration he had for his next novel left with Sunny, and Dirk was sulking right along with Oliver.
“Ouch,” Oliver snapped and glared at the beady-eyed, lavender-colored hen who’d delivered the sharp peck to his thigh.
She — Henrietta, if he remembered correctly — cocked her head. “Cluck-cluck, cluck,” she replied from her perch on the roost before nudging the hand Oliver rubbed over his stinging leg. “Cluck.”
“What? Now you want me topetyou?” An image of Molly carrying the hen around came to mind, and he gave the bird closer scrutiny.Was it possible she missed the little girl?Missedhumancontact?He knew the hen was one Molly had chosen. Sunny had mentioned once her daughter would only eat the blue eggs the Orpington laid.
Oliver tugged off his glove. “If you bite me again, I’ll have you for dinner,” he warned, stroking a hand down her back, and lo and behold, the cursed hen closed her eyes, and …purred? “Well, hell.” He scooped the bird up, held her close to his chest, and chuffed a low laugh when Henrietta tucked her head beneath his chin and snuggled in.
It took Oliver triple the time to scatter fresh shavings. It was an onerous task using only one hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to release Henrietta. And it about broke his heart afresh when he had to place the bird on her roost. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he assured.But he kept an eye on her as he topped the water bowls and feeders and spread the scraps of fruit and vegetables he’d chopped up earlier.He needed to blink rapidly when Henrietta left her roosting perch and joined her flock on the ground, greedily pecking at the food.
It was only when he’d filled the basket with eggs that Oliver realized there was no blue amongst the white and brown he collected. He walked back to the side closest to Henrietta and crouched. “I know I’mnot Molly, girl, but maybe you can give me an eggtomorrow?”
Henrietta gave him a beady-eyed look. “Cluck,” she promised.
Oliver’s lips kicked up in a half-grin. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”
His grin held until he entered the too quiet house and placed the basket on the kitchen counter. He looked about, having avoided entering Sunny’s home after that first morning he’d dashed through, yelling at the top of his voice for his girls.
Today he was going to search the house from top to bottom.
Today he needed answers.
He was done waiting for them to return. And themomenthe figured where they went, he was goingafter them and dragging them home.
An hour later, defeated, Oliver sat his dispirited ass on Sunny’s unmade bed and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.
Her scent still lingered in the room, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave.
He’d found nothing.
Not one scrap of a clue as to who Sunny really was, or where she’d gone.
They’d taken little. Toiletries, favorite toys, a few books, some clothes. If he had to guess, they’d left —fled— with less than they’d arrived with.
Groaning, he flung his torso back on the bed and stared at the grooved ceiling the woman he loved had painstakingly painted. After all she’d accomplished, she just up and left it all behind. Like the criminal she claimed not to be. If only she’d talked, explained herself, her position.
“Why, Sunny?” he cried out into the silent room, his throat clogged with emotion.
Her flight was definitely linked to him being Christie’s husband.
