Walk the Right Road: The Complete Series by Lorhainne Eckhart Page A

the side of his mouth. The lock clicked. Sam grinned.
    “Forgot my key. If you recall, we left in a hurry. Viola. In you go, madam.” He pushed open the door and gestured her in with the sweep of his hand.
    The sparse cottage consisted of furnishings from the sixties, maybe earlier. Marcie walked into a tiny square box-style kitchen with a small, banged-up second-hand dining table and two rickety wood chairs shoved against the wall behind the door.
    Sam removed plywood from each window, allowing the late-day sun to infiltrate the quaint cottage. Against the back wall of the rustic kitchen, a set of steep stairs led up to a door. Marcie wandered up the narrow stairs. Something about the attic urged her to open the door, so she turned the small ivory doorknob, but nothing happened. A turn-of-the-century brass lock appeared implanted in the wood frame above the doorknob. She couldn’t tell if it was stuck or locked.
    “You got a key to open this door?”
    “What are you doing up there?” Sam stood at the bottom of the stairs.
    “I’m curious, Sam. What’s up here?”
    “I don’t know, probably a bunch of junk.” He turned his back, clearly not interested, and pulled open the ancient rounded fridge door. A pungent stench quickly filled the room. Sam gagged.
    Marcie trotted down the stairs, waving her hand in the air to disperse the offensive odor.
    “Shit, that stupid ass,” Sam said.
    Marcie’s stomach heaved, so she breathed through her mouth.
    “I pay a guy who lives in Jefferson Parish to look after the place. Comes out here every now and then to fish, hang out, mainly to get away from his wife. He left his food.” Sam let out a restless sigh. “I need to go to the store. I’m hungry.” He shoved the fridge door closed. “Do you think you’ll be okay till I get back?”
    “I’ll be just fine. Go on now.” Marcie smiled until she realized he expected her to clean the fridge. Her smile faded.
    Sam started to say something and then stopped while he walked across the old hardwood floor straight toward her. “Come here. I need you to stay out of sight. Don’t go out, and keep the door closed. Bolt it after I leave, and don’t open it for anyone, not until you hear my voice. Understand?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Strong hands touched her shoulders and slid down her bare arms before he turned away. “I’ll try to hurry.”
    Marcie followed, still tingling from his touch. After she bolted the door, she leaned her back against the rough wood, listening to the Camaro’s rumble as Sam revved the engine and drove away. She wondered for a moment where his head was. He’d been so angry earlier. He blamed her for this mess. Yet here he was, touching her in such a possessive way. He cares for you.
    She closed her eyes to block out the voice, letting out a sigh while she wandered back to the steep stairs. Something about that door urged her to find a way in. She felt the words in her head more than she heard them. Up here, open the door . She glanced behind her, downright spooked. She heard nothing now, but when she peeked at that attic door, she knew she needed to find a way in.
    There were three tiny drawers in the bare-bones kitchen. Marcie yanked open each one, rummaging through old utensils and junk until she found a long metal prong. “A chicken skewer, that’ll work.” She bounded up the rough wooden steps. “Okay, so this is easy, right?” She turned the glass knob and pressed the metal prong in the lock and jiggled. Then, somehow, she fumbled her grip and stabbed herself with the pointy skewer in the soft pad at the base of her thumb. The shiny metal landed with a clang and clattered down three stairs. “Damn, damn. Shit, that hurts.” She cradled her throbbing hand while blood oozed out of a small round puncture, splattering the top step. Her energy zapped, she picked up the skewer and hunkered down the stairs, where she rinsed her burning wound under a huge single tap in the oversized porcelain