She had always wanted him. So why should it surprise her that standing here, in his living room, covered in dried blood after three days of sheer terror in the captivity of five psychotic bank robbers and a row of interminable police interviews, the only thing she felt was need. It was burning and immediate, a reassertion of life in its most primal form. “I want you.”It stopped him in his tracks, the pillow he was about to drop onto the couch dangling uselessly from his hand. She met the shock in his blue eyes with the absolute certainty in her own and repeated:“I want you. Now.”She did not wait for his answer, or any encouragement. She could not, too mired in the need to touch him, to reach for him and feel the life of his skin not the sallow tint of death her mind had suggested to her again and again over the days of their captivity. Her hands smoothed across the planes of his chest, the warmth reassuring under her touch, the goosebumps following her touch a calming sign of life,. Barnes and hadn’t been removed, or was a ridiculously-early preparation for Valerie, Diane couldn’t figure.There were also cupboards for used clothes. Mrs. Grant explained that both “the mister’s” church and hers had rummage sales, and the household supplied them. Diane was a little confused but she figured that the storage room had Valerie’s bathroom and the bathroom of one of the empty rooms behind it. Across from it was the door to Mrs. Grant’s bedroom. That room was named but not opened.Mrs. Grant did open the door to her “sitting room.” She didn’t invite Diane in, and even Valerie didn’t try to enter. There was a door into the bedroom on the hall side of one wall, and a door into the bathroom on the window side. Both were closed.The street side of the other end held first the stairway which they had come up, then three “guest rooms.” These were generous in size and held queen-sized beds covered with bed spreads. They were made with sheets and a blanket. Mrs. Grant smiled at her.
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