23 Years Later
"Hey, Jayje," Emily greeted her best friend, leaning against the counter at the diner. "Two orders of potato and leek soup, one shepherd's pie, and a chef's salad."
"Ooh… Someone's got a big night planned," JJ teased. She paused in her work, a plate forgotten in her hand. "Nothing more erotic than shepherd's pie..."
Emily rolled her eyes. "Ha ha, you're hilarious," she muttered. "FYI: I just don't feel like cooking a big meal for someone who may or may not be home at a reasonable hour."
She shrugged, letting her friend's sour attitude roll right off her. Behind her, the chef rang the bell that signified an order being ready. "While you're waiting for your order could you do me a solid?" she begged, putting on her best pleading look.
"What is it?" Emily asked warily. With JJ, a favour was often harmless, but occasionally resulted in minor vandalism (granted, they'd been teenagers when that had happened, but still...).
"You know that big house on the edge of town that everyone says is haunted? Well, the guy that lives there, he's kind of a hermit and he's super wealthy, so he pays us to deliver even though we don't usually do that…and we're swamped tonight and I can't leave," JJ explained in one breath, not giving her the chance to protest.
Emily sighed. "Fine. But I'm keeping the tip. And you owe me big time."
Emily warily knocked on the ornately carved wooden door, occasionally glancing over her shoulder, afraid to turn her back to the jungle of weeds that had overtaken the yard that had presumably once been tidy and manicured, half convinced that she would be eaten by some wild animal living there.
She'd never actually ventured to this side of town – her house, the sheriff's station where her husband worked, and the library where she volunteered were all on the opposite side, so she'd never had any reason to come here.
She didn't know much about the house or its owner – no one did, really – there were rumours that it was haunted by spirits of people the owner had killed or some urban legend like that. She didn't really hold much credence to it, but she couldn't deny that there was an awfully creepy vibe about the whole place.
She was just on the verge of leaving when the door opened slightly and a hand emerged, gesturing for her to hand her the bag. She was so fixated on the scarred and twisted skin of the hand that she nearly missed the voice, gravelly from disuse, demanding the food.
Snatching the food out of reach, Emily snapped, "Manners!"
The door opened a fraction further and the light that spilled out was blocked by a cloaked figure. An eye stared at her from the shadows cast across the rest of the face, studying her curiously as if she was the first human he'd ever seen.
"You're not the one they usually send."
She raised a brow. "That's because I'm a librarian. I'm guessing you don't get out that way much."
He looked a little surprised at her prickliness and she was guessing most people were too afraid of him to speak to him at all, let alone with any sort of an attitude.
It surprised her then, when he gave a slight nod and shrugged. Before she could further comment, he pressed a wad of bills into her hand and slammed the door in her face.
"Honey, are you home?" Emily asked the house at large, setting the take-out down on the counter. No reply. She sighed heavily, feeling a twinge of loneliness.
That was the thing about being married to the only law enforcement officer in the town – usually it was a normal nine-to-five, but if something happened, you were home alone for days on end. (Not that anything all that interesting happened with any regularity – mostly it was just drunk and disorderlies, traffic violations, with the occasional teenage shenanigans.)
She paused, glanced at the wedding picture hanging on the wall, wondering what had happened to that young girl who had so much hope – for her life and her marriage... She shook her head. Best not to dwell on that particular wound.
She moved to put the food in the fridge, suddenly not feeling hungry, and contemplated going straight to bed when she heard his footsteps behind her. She stiffened, sensing his mood.
"You're late," came her husband's displeased voice. His hand landed on her hip – not particularly tender, but not punishing either.
She turned and gave him an apologetic grimace, resting her hands on his chest. "I stopped to grab us some dinner and there was a huge back-up at the diner." She shrugged. "One of the cooks was out sick."
She wasn't sure why she found herself lying to him about where she had been. Not that it was technically a lie – she had been waiting on the food – it was more like withholding the full truth. She didn't make a habit of keeping things from him, but there was something inside her head that told her that her exact location and company was something better kept to herself. At least for the time being.
He stared at her for what felt like ages and she remained determinedly unwavering despite a growing nervousness that he didn't believe her. It wasn't that he was abusive or even unkind…he was just extremely protective and distrustful of almost everyone.
Finally, he replied, "You didn't call. I was worried."
"I'm sorry, Ian…" she murmured, fiddling flirtatiously with the buttons on his shirt. She glanced up at him through her lashes. "But we've got the night to ourselves now and I'd like to make it up to you…"
He tried to remain serious. "Alright, Love…if you feel you must, I suppose I can allow that."
She laughed softly and stretched to press her lips to his, all thoughts of dinner abandoned as she took his hand, tugging him gently towards the bedroom.