The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters), Sheehan-Miles, Charles [reading an ebook .txt] 📗

tensed in my seat, watching out the window as the plane inched toward the gate. Now that we were moving slowly, I pulled my bag out from under the seat and put away my book, then took out my phone. The flight had been smooth, and I’d relaxed and read a book since the eight a.m. departure from San Francisco. I was tired, but not so much I wouldn’t be fine making it through the day and evening.

Finally. The plane shut down, the engines slowing to a stop, and I heard the clicks and thumps as the gate connected. I switched on my phone. At least I’d be off the plane quickly, my frequent flyer miles let me upgrade to business class, so I was on the second row of the plane.

My phone chirped with an incoming text message, and the screen lit up.

Damn it. The preview on the screen said, “I’m so sorry.”

I unlocked the phone and flipped to the messages.

The Army and FBI just showed up here AGAIN with more questions. I don’t know how long this is going to take.

The next message read: It’s been two hours. I’ll keep you updated.

And two more. The first said: Shit. There’s no way I’m going to make it to the airport in time. Take a cab to Glen Cove, and I’ll pay.

Finally: I’m so sorry.

I sighed. Poor Ray. They were putting him through the wringer. The thing was, they hadn’t called him in. They hadn’t called him up and said, “We’ll be there tomorrow at 11.” Instead, they just randomly showed up. It was as if they thought he was lying and were trying to catch him on inconsistencies. I couldn’t even imagine the stress he was under.

Once I got clear of the gate, I called Ray.

It rang four times, then he answered.

“Hey,” he said. “Carrie, I am so sorry. I feel awful.”

“Stop,” I replied. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for, it was out of your control. I’m going to rent a car, just text me your address?”

“You sure? Wouldn’t it be cheaper to take a cab?”

“Yeah, but this way we’ll have wheels for the whole visit. You did say you don’t have a car right now?”

“True. How about we split it?”

I rolled my eyes. “Ray, I get this ridiculously stupid allowance from my father. Let me use it. Besides, you bought the tickets to the show tonight, and I know that couldn’t have been cheap.”

“But ... all right, fine.”

“Send me the text, and I’ll be there as soon as I can. Tell the Army I said hi!” I have no idea what possessed me to say that.

He chuckled. “Cute. At the rate we’re going, you may get a chance to tell them yourself.”

So I got my luggage, then made my way to the Hertz counter and flashed my membership card, which usually catches their attention very quickly, and ten minutes later I was programming Ray’s address into the GPS.

An hour later I pulled to a stop in front of a large apartment building in Glen Cove. I leaned out and looked up at the building. It was old, the stones painted with a light blue, which was peeling off here and there. It was a nice building, and looked to have been built to last, but it wasn’t in the best repair. The lawn was covered in snow, and someone had not done a very good job of shoveling the sidewalk. I got out of the car, took my bag out of the trunk and carefully made my way up the walk, then studied the directory next to the front door. I found “Sherman” in the directory and hit the button.

Just a moment later the buzzer went off, and I headed inside.

Ray’s apartment—or his parents’ rather—was on the eighth floor. The inside of the building reinforced my first impression. It was a nice building, but was suffering from lack of repair. Ray had told me his parents’ story—they’d been not quite wealthy, but firmly middle class. High paying jobs with lots of debt, and when the jobs vanished, so did their lives. Sometimes, when I heard stories like that, I felt guilty. I took my parents’ wealth for granted. My father inherited his money, and it allowed us things that few people had, not the least of which was security that our homes wouldn’t vanish out from under us due to a job change or because someone got sick.

Ray met me at the door and I involuntarily sucked in a breath when I saw him. It had only been three weeks or so, but the reality of him hit me all over again as we looked in each other’s eyes and embraced. Then his mouth was on mine and I forgot the time in between, I forgot the distance, I forgot the Army and everything else other than this very moment. I squeezed him tight, trying to do what I’d planned ... easing the stress I knew he was under. I could feel it in his shoulder muscles, which were tightly bunched, tense, rock hard. He kissed me, and it felt as passionate, as hungry, as it had the very first time.

“I missed you,” I whispered.

“I missed you,” he replied. “Come on in. They’re still here.”

My arms and shoulders tensed and the muscles in my neck tightened, rigid. I walked into the apartment. It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, but for some reason, walking in that apartment felt like walking into midnight.

The woman was an attractive, professional looking black woman who stood as I entered. She walked toward me, hand out, and said, “I’m Janice Smalls. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Thompson.”

I took her hand and shook. “Nice to meet you,” I said.

The man, who was lounging in a seat near her, a notebook in his lap, nodded from his seat.

“Jared Coombs,” he said. “Federal Bureau of Investigation.” Then he went back to his notes.

My mother may not have set the best example of sanity