Pretend I'm Yours E-Book

Jessa James

• Herausgeber: Jessa James
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 258

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Heartbroken, destroyed, and on the edge of despair. Thats how I felt for two years after my wife died, leaving me all alone with our baby. I sucked it up and kept going for my little girl but I wasnt living. I was only existing. Then I met Larkin, my gorgeous blonde neighbor. Shes got curves that my hands ache to hold, and toffee-colored eyes that beg me to do unspeakable things to her. I dont want to want her. I dont want to look at her, and I definitely dont want to long for her. I want to avoid her. Except I cant. Everywhere I go, everything I do, I am brought back to Larkin. And when we finally cave, falling into bed together... Its f**king explosive and passionate and deep. It feels as essential as breathing. Im starting to fall in love with Larkin but it was never supposed to turn into this. If I want a future with Larkin, I have to figure out how to let go of the past. And nothing has ever felt so good and hurt so bad.

Leseprobe

Pretend I’m Yours

Jessa James

Pretend I’m Yours: Copyright © 2020 by Jessa James

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical, digital or mechanical including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning or by any type of data storage and retrieval system without express, written permission from the author.

Published by Jessa James

James, Jessa

Pretend I’m Yours

Cover design copyright 2020 by Jessa James, Author

Images/Photo Credit: Deposit photos: HayDmitriy; Melpomene

Publisher’s Note:

This book was written for an adult audience. The book may contain explicit sexual content. Sexual activities included in this book are strictly fantasies intended for adults and any activities or risks taken by fictional characters within the story are neither endorsed nor encouraged by the author or publisher.

This book has been previously published.

Contents

Get A Free Book!

1. Charlie

2. Larkin

3. Charlie

4. Larkin

5. Charlie

6. Larkin

7. Charlie

8. Larkin

9. Charlie

10. Larkin

11. Charlie

12. Larkin

13. Charlie

14. Larkin

15. Charlie

16. Charlie

17. Larkin

18. Charlie

19. Larkin

20. Charlie

21. Charlie

22. Larkin

23. Charlie

24. Larkin

Epilogue

Get A Free Book!

Also by Jessa James

About the Author

Get A Free Book!

Join my mailing list to be the first to know of new releases, free books, special prices and other author giveaways.

http://freehotcontemporary.com

1

Charlie

Two Years Ago

It’s in the middle of a drizzly spring afternoon that I lose her.

“Bye, John,” I say to the older man putting away the gray folding chairs with a snap. We’re in a dingy church basement, but at least the church lets us meet here for free.

“Charlie,” John says. His cheeks are bright pink, his eyes deep blue. His clothes are several sizes too big and blandly beige. He nods his graying head to me, then goes back to intently stacking the chairs.

I take a last sip of my coffee, wincing at the sweetness of it. I put way too much sugar in it, but it can’t be helped now. I throw away the dregs in my paper cup, and the paper napkin that I have balled up in one fist, holding the crumbs of a bland store bought cookie.

“Watch out,” someone calls out, just in time to stop me from running into a sign that hangs from the ceiling. The ceilings here are so low that there’s only a few inches between them and the top of my head. I guess there aren’t a whole lot of guys built like Vikings walking around here.

Still, the warning is appreciated.

“Thanks,” I call back, but the person that warned me is halfway out the metal doors that lead to the parking lot.

I look around, a little deflated. I’m a big guy, former Army and CIA. I ended up here because of my panic attacks and nightmares. My wife Britta told me it was this or sleep on the couch every night, because there was no way she was going to let me keep waking her up.

Between her being nine months pregnant at the time and me not even fitting on the couch… I knew that I needed help. So I made some calls. Three types of group therapy later, and here I am.

I sigh, cycling through some of the ideas presented during the session, turning them over in my head. The idea of vulnerability, of allowing yourself to be vulnerable around another person, was talked about a lot.

Listening to some people talk, I’m glad that I have Britta by my side. She pulled me back from the brink after I got back from Syria, and she’s the thing that holds me here now.

I pull out my phone. I’m thinking nice thoughts about you, I text Britta.

No immediate response, but that’s okay. I stuff my phone back into the pocket of my jeans. I should go.

There are a few people still talking by the refreshments table, but the rest of my new support group — Combat Vets Talk — have already left. As I head for the metal double doors, my eyes sweep the basement one last time, automatically checking the moldering walls and the cheap blue carpet for…

What? I ask myself. Enemy combatants? Threats?

I left all of that behind in the sandy cityscape of Aleppo, where I was stationed as a CIA operative. That was a year ago, and yet I am just now starting to recover. Thus the group therapy sessions.

Well, I should give credit where credit is due: Britta and our newborn daughter are an integral part of my recovery, too. Watching Britta’s baby bump grow, and then holding Sarah for the first time… it changed something in me, on a molecular level.

Now I don’t know what I would do without them. They’re the light of my life, not to be Debbie Boone about it.

I push open the door and squint into the sunny daylight. It’s just beginning to rain, but that’s pretty much a constant here in Seattle. Besides, the rain is a nice break from the roasting heat of the church basement. The raindrops hit my arms and face, icy relief. I pull on my navy blue windbreaker and head toward my car.

There aren’t many cars left in the church parking lot; it’s a Saturday afternoon, and it’s pretty nice out, despite the drizzle. Most people in Seattle are probably having brunch or hiking or shopping right now.

Me, I’m just ready to go to the library, to meet Britta and Sarah. I picture them in my head: Britta with her long dark hair and warm smile. Sarah in her onesie, with her mom’s coloring and my green eyes. In the picture in my head, Britta carries the baby in her little striped front-facing harness while Sarah dozes.

Sarah is only three months old, but Britta says it’s never too early to introduce her to the library. We’ve been lightheartedly arguing about what sort of things we should read to Sarah. Britta says it doesn’t matter, but I’m advocating for starting with reading the baby the news in several languages.

After all, it’s never too early to encourage critical thinking skills, right? My mind is focused on that when I slide into my car and start the engine.

I pull out of the parking lot and go left, my hands turning the wheel, muscle memory taking over. I made the mistake of turning on NPR in the car. I can’t listen to it without getting wrapped up in the stories, having a lot of personal feelings about them, and filing each story away in my mental vault with precision.

I get a couple miles from home when I realize that I’ve gone on autopilot. The library is the other way. I glance at the clock in my car. I’m probably going to be late to meet Britta.

Turning around, I head northwest, the same way that I would if I were leaving my house. Something on the radio distracts me; I’m irritated with the White House trying to poke their nose into what’s going on with Syria, and doing it badly.

I see a car crash up ahead when I turn a corner, twisted hunks of metal surrounded by several police cars with flashing lights. A cop is waving people around it; another is half-heartedly pulling police tape around the scene.

I almost turn right, to avoid the traffic building up, but for some reason I don’t. Maybe it’s the fact that everyone loves to see a traffic accident. We all secretly like to see the car that flipped upside down, to try to figure out how it happened. Wipe our figurative brows and sigh with relief that it wasn’t us, as we drive away.

Anyway, I’m listening to NPR, and drumming on the steering wheel as I wait for the cop to wave me through. I crane my head to look at the accident as I wait, judging the distance between the two cars.

There’s no question of anyone ever driving either vehicle again. Hell, if people didn’t die in such a savage wreck, they should thank their lucky fucking stars.

Car A is a shiny new black Dodge Charger, and it’s smashed up pretty bad. Car B is laying on its side, undercarriage facing me, and it has clearly rolled a couple of times. It looks like Car A t-boned Car B, and Car B rolled to a stop, frozen on its side like that.

I try to make out what kind of vehicle it is, but all I can figure is that Car B is a dark SUV. A tingle of foreboding runs down my spine. Britta drives a dark SUV, a black Nissan Pathfinder.

Easy, I tell myself. She’s at the library, probably wondering where you are.

I edge up, progressing slowly through the line. Finally it’s my turn to be waved through, and I carefully move forward. I can’t help but stare at Car A and Car B, and at the numerous police walking around, making notes and taking pictures.

I’m almost past the wreck entirely, about to speed up, when something catches my eye. One of the police officers is cataloging some personal effects that probably came from Car B, and she’s putting a blanket in a large evidence bag.

The blanket is heart-stoppingly familiar to me. Made for a baby, it depicts a scene with two bears fishing in a river. The thing is, I’ve only seen that blanket design in one place: on a handmade blanket, made for Sarah by Britta’s mother.

I stomp on the brakes while my brain starts to overheat, working overtime. Maybe Britta’s mother bought the blanket, and there are multiples out there is the world. Or maybe—

The car behind me honks, jolting me. I move forward again, pulling over as soon as I’m clear of the accident. My heart is pounding, all the blood rushing through my head, making it hard to think.

I turn around, looking back at the accident. The blanket is no longer visible. I try to make out what model the SUV is, but from this angle, it’s impossible.

I start to shake as I unbuckle my seatbelt and pull my phone out of my pocket. Britta beams at me as she holds Sarah; that’s the picture on my screen as I dial her number with clumsy fingers.

It rings four times. I glance in my rearview mirror on the fifth ring, and see the woman who is bagging things pick up one of the bags.

My heart goes into freefall when I see that she’s holding a cell phone.

No.

No, it can’t be.

I get out of the car, conscious of the fact that the edges of my vision are swimming around, growing unclear. That’s the first sign of a panic attack, but just now that’s the last thing on my mind.

“Sir?” a young woman steps in front of me as I start to charge over.

“The accident,” I say, not even looking at the officer. I’m too focused on looking at the things still on the ground, trying to see if I recognize anything. “Where are the people who were hurt?”

She reaches out to stop me when I try to move closer. “Sir, you need—”

I grab her wrist, my gaze locking with hers, desperate. My heart begins to beat faster, so fast that I think I might faint. My breath comes in short gasps, my vision is hazy, my hands tingle.

I am totally out of control.

“It might be my wife,” I manage. I let go of her wrist, clawing at my open collar. “My daughter. I just need to know—”

I push past her, ignoring the fact that she’s saying, “Sir? Sir!”

I walk determinedly toward Car B, until I see a faded silk rose on the ground, surrounded by a million tiny pieces of glass… and blood.

A whole body’s worth of blood.

I clutch at my heart, my legs locking up. I look to my right, and there’s an older male police officer by Car B. He’s talking into his phone, making observations. He doesn’t even see me, he’s too busy examining the damage to the SUV.

“It’s a shame,” he says, shaking his head. “Drunk driver comes along, kills a woman, nearly kills her baby, and yet he walks away unscathed. A damn shame.”

No.

It can’t be true.

The first officer catches up with me, grabbing my elbow, shouting for some help. I fall to my knees, feeling my knees looking at the silk rose again.

No.

Not Britta.

It isn’t possible.

There must be some mistake.

“Are you okay?” the officer who has my elbow asks.

I look at her, and the blackness threatens to overtake my consciousness. Both of my hands scrabble for purchase over my chest. I try to speak, but I don’t have the breath to do much more than whisper.

“My heart,” I say.

Everything goes black.

2

Larkin

Current Day

Why won’t this stuff come off? I fume, trying to scrub harder.

I’m way up on a ladder that is propped up outside my mother’s house. Scratch that — my mom died three years ago, and before that she didn’t really take care of the massive old Victorian house.

That is why I am on this ladder right now, furiously scrubbing at the spiderwebs and other black crud that has gathered along the eaves.

I guess that makes it my house now.

I’ve got on an old long sleeve shirt, my oldest pair of jeans, and I have my long blonde hair tied up in a kerchief. It may be the summer, but it doesn’t get very warm here on the Oregon coast. At best, it will get into the sixties.

So really, cleaning the eaves of the house is a necessary task, but it also allows me to sunbathe a little. I soak up the vitamin D, hoping that it will somehow make me happier. Too bad that it can’t do anything about this black gunk on the side of the house.

At last I manage to chip away a piece, and it comes off.

Ah. I just have to chip and peel it away, I think.

As I work, I have to wonder how Mom let it get this bad. The house is right in the middle of what I think of as Pacific Pines downtown area, a huge open area of grass surrounded by houses and shops. My mom’s house — my house now — is two stories, gray-green and gabled.

At some point in the past, my mom paid to have the house converted into a duplex. Both sides of the house are decorated in bold, lurid designs that harken back to the early 1970s. But that’s my mom for you — Big Ruth, people called her. The elementary school principal, a serial philanderer, and a textbook narcissist if ever there was one. She didn’t do anything halfway, especially not home decor.

I intensify my efforts, and am rewarded when a big strip comes off. The whole point of coming back to Pacific Pines is to sell this house and use the proceeds to move to New York. I’ve been here for six months, working at the library and hanging out with my Aunt Mabel, my mother’s much older sister.

Unfortunately, like all things that had to do with my mother, it’s not a simple matter of putting the house up for sale. I’m going to have to fix the place up first. From the shutters hanging loose, to the paint peeling — inside and out — to the massive pile of rusting junk in the back yard…

This is going to be a massive project. And since I don’t have the money to throw at fixing it, I’m doing all the reasonable stuff that someone who is five feet tall can do. Today is the first time that I’ve ever put any elbow grease into the house, and I’m finding it…

Well, frustrating, if I’m honest.

Actually, that’s not true. I did spend a whole day last week opening up the other side of the house, the one that basically sat empty for years. I was curious what I would find over there, so I opened all the doors and windows, disturbed all the dust bunnies and moths.

To my mild surprise, the other side of the house is decorated as a mirror image of mine. Green cabinets and green paisley wallpaper in the kitchen. A large living area with cobblestone floors, contrasting wildly with the low sitting butter-yellow couch and chairs. All the bathrooms done in objectionable shades of green, pink, and yellow.

I even went upstairs and found the same bedroom furniture, all cedar and teak, the bedspreads the same geometric patterns in browns and yellows. I did the same thing there that I did on my side; I pulled all the linens off the beds and replaced them with fresh new ones, right out of the package. I cleaned all the carpets, vacuumed all the drapes, and basically clean the hell out of every available surface.

Yeah, I will have to replace everything over there or get rid of it sooner or later, but for now it’s clean enough.

“Hey, Miss Lake!” a young boy calls.

I turn my head and shade my eyes against the sun. It’s Sam Rees, a ten year old regular at my library. He’s wearing a little league uniform.

“Hey Sam. How’s it going?” I ask.

“Good,” he says. “I’m gonna go play baseball.”

“Well, that’s awesome!” I say.

He scratches his head. “Yeah… I would rather be in the library, though. Are you going to be there tomorrow?”

“Yep!” I crow. “Bright and early, to get everything ready for you guys.”

Sam grins. “Okay, good. See you then, Miss Lake!”

“Bye, Sam,” I call down, but he’s already taken off in the direction of the town’s baseball field.

I chip the last bit of black crud off that I can reach, and then start to climb down the ladder. As I pass the upstairs window, I’m sort of startled to see my personal zoo assembled there, watching and waiting.

Muffin stares at me intently through her one good eye, her little feline tail twitching. Zack and Morris are my two lab mixes with six legs between them; they both bark and pant excitedly when I tap on the glass. Sadie is my most special dog — she’s a blind and deaf Malamute, and she’s currently got her head cocked, trying to understand why Zack and Morris are excited.

I smile as I descend the ladder. They’re all considered broken in some way, but that makes them all the more precious to me. When I get to the ground, I see a tall, dark-haired man about my age coming toward me. He’s carrying a little girl that I judge to be about two. She has darker hair, but there is something about their bone structure that marks them as related.

I glance left and right, making sure that the man intends to talk to me. There isn’t anyone in sight, so I square my shoulders. As the man gets closer, I see that he’s so much taller than I am. There’s at least a foot and a half between the tops of our heads.

Not only that, but he’s a grade-A hunk, I admit to myself. Dark eyebrows sloping over bright green eyes, high cheekbones, broad lips, a day’s worth of scruff. He’s dressed casually, in jeans and a black hoodie, plus military-style black boots. And his body is blush-worthy. He’s muscular and big all over.

Yikes.

“Hi,” I say, keeping my tone light and friendly.

He hitches up the little girl on his hip, stopping in front of me. I examine her briefly; she’s wearing a light gray hoodie and navy leggings, plus a pair of black shoes.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m Charlie Lawson.”

The timbre of his voice is unexpectedly deep and rough. It gives me a chill of excitement down my spine. I feel bad suddenly for whoever’s husband I am clearly lusting after.

Well, not too bad. They do get to sleep with him at night.

“Larkin Lake,” I say, extending my hand. He bounces the little girl, then takes it. When his fingers clasp mine, I feel a little jolt of electricity. He drops my hand quickly.

“This is my daughter, Sarah,” he says. “Say hi, Sarah.”

The little girl laughs, showcasing a dazzling smile. “Hiiiiiiiii.”

I laugh. “Hi, Sarah!”

“We were eating lunch at Dot’s Diner over there,” he says, jerking his head to where the diner is visible on the far side of the grass. “And I asked where I could rent someplace around here. The lady that waited on me said to talk to you, said you have a place.”

I turn around, squinting up at my house. I do have a place, but it’s not exactly public knowledge. That will teach me to think I can air out one side of my house in this town and not have everybody and their sister know it right away.

“I do,” I say slowly. “It’s sort of a throwback, though. Everything was installed in the seventies.”

“Is it clean?” he asks, his brows hunching.

“Well, yes.”

“Yes,” Sarah mimics, looking proud of herself.

He doesn’t react, just bounces her on his hip again.

“Does it have two bedrooms?” he asks.

I bite my lip before replying. “It has three. Do you… do you want to see it?”

He narrows his gaze for a second, maybe trying to decide on my trustworthiness. “Sure.”

I turn and lead them up the steps to the second entrance, built to mirror the first. It’s not as grand as the original, the door plain old solid wood whereas mine is leaded glass. The two entrances are separated by a wall, so that each has its own private half of the porch.

“I’ll be right back,” I say to Charlie, who just jogs Sarah on his hip. “I have to get the keys from my place.”

I run down the steps and up to my door. The keys are on a hook just inside, hung above my neatly arranged rows of coats on their hooks and rain boots on the floor.

I grab them and make my way back to Charlie and Sarah. I hold up the keys as evidence that I was successful, but he doesn’t even blink.

“So, uh… are you moving here with your… partner?” I ask as I unlock the door, swinging it open wide.

“Par-nuh,” Sarah repeats. I smile at her.

“That’s right, I said partner,” I coo at her.

I’m pretty sure he’s straight, but you know what they say about assumptions. We move inside, taking in the open layout of the living area.

“No,” Charlie says, in a forbidding tone that doesn’t beg for any follow up questions. “Just me and Sarah.”

“Ah,” I nod, cringing internally.

I’m noticing that Charlie doesn’t feel a need to fill the long pauses between his words with idle chatter. Not like me; I feel more anxious by the second when there is just silence.

With that and the look of his boots, I guess that he’s former military. My dad was in the military, when I was a little girl. He carried himself in a similar way, his eyes always constantly moving.

“So, if you don’t mind me asking, what are you moving to Pacific Pines for?” I say.

“I want to be closer to family,” he replies. He jostles Sarah on his hip, his attention moving toward the kitchen.

I follow him as he makes his way through the first floor. “And what do you do for a living?”

He opens up one of the green cabinets, and finds it empty.

“I work for myself,” he says. “Money isn’t an issue.”

My brows rise. “Oh?”

“Down,” Sarah says, tugging on Charlie’s shirt. “Down.”

He glances around, then sets her down. “Do you mind watching her for a second so I can look at the bedrooms?”

I look at Sarah, who walks over to the kitchen cabinets and begins opening and closing one of the lower ones. “Sure, no problem.”

He vanishes toward the rest of the house. I figure he’s capable of finding the stairs on his own. Sarah is not convinced, though.

“Dad’s gone!” she says to me, her expression one of perfect surprise.

Time to distract her. I move over to her and bend down, pointing to the cabinet.

“That’s a cabinet.”

“Cab-nee,” she says.

“Cabinet,” I repeat.

I hear Charlie’s boots on the stairs, and then I hear him walking around.

She looks at me, her expression solemn. “Cab-ney.”

“Mmmhm,” I murmur. Sarah turns and looks around.

“Where?” she squawks. “Dad gone?”

“Hey, did you see this?” I redirect her attention by pulling open a drawer. “Look.”

Her face grows curious. “Wha?”

I close the drawer, then open it again. She comes over and places her tiny hand over mine, pushing it until the drawer closes. Then she looks up at me.

“It work,” she says, serious as death.

“Yes, it does.” I pull the drawer open again, and she watches me with solemn eyes.

I hear Charlie thundering down the stairs, and a few seconds later he reappears in the kitchen.

“Da!” Sarah squeals, throwing her arms up. “Hold!”

Charlie scoops her up. She looks utterly delighted. There is something about the way her tiny fist clutches at his hoodie that makes my throat thick with an emotion I cannot name.

“I like it,” he says to me. “I’d prefer not to be on a lease. I’ll pay more if I have to. Assuming that you’ll have us, that is.”

“Well, I wasn’t planning on letting this place out so soon… so I don’t have a lease yet anyway,” I say with a shrug. “How’s… eight hundred a month sound?”

He doesn’t react, just shrugs back. “Alright. First and last month’s rent as deposit?”

My eyes widen. That’s a lot of money. Then again, he did say that it was no issue. “Sure.”

“Can I move in right now?” he asks.

“Now,” Sarah repeats, then cracks up laughing. It’s hard not to grin.

“Yeah, sure. You have a lot of stuff?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “We probably have less than six bags each, and that’s about it.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised.

“Really,” he says, reaching for his wallet. He skillfully manages to pull a wad of cash from his wallet while Sarah finds the cord of his hoodie and pulls it. He counts it, then hands some of it over. “Here you go. That should be about sixteen hundred.”

He pushes the money into my hands. “Great. Here are the keys. Want me to watch Sarah while you move your bags inside?”

“Nah,” he says. “We’ll be just fine.”

“Alright,” I say with a shrug. “I’ll see you guys around. Bye, Sarah.”

Sarah says a string of nonsense words, but I take it as goodbye. I walk back around the house to my ladder, scrunching my face at it.

Somehow, it seems a lot less interesting than it did an hour ago. I move the ladder over and climb up it again. If I climb to the very top and get on my tiptoes, I can just see Charlie and Sarah, going back and forth across the green grass, presumably to whatever vehicle he has.

Charlie is basically a giant question mark to me, albeit a handsome one. Still, I can’t say that I’m not glad to have some eye candy…

And Sarah is friggin precious, in the bargain.

I sigh and go back to chipping black gunk off the eaves.

3

Charlie

I wake up the next morning to two year old Sarah staring down at me with a frown. I put her to sleep in her Pack N Play, but obviously she’s outgrown that, since she’s climbing on my chest right now.

I just lie there for a second, feeling the sweat from my nightmare making my cotton t-shirt and pajama bottoms cling to my body. The room that we’re in feels weird, and it takes me a second to remember that we’ve never slept here before.

Sarah peers down at me, her dark hair a wild mess. She has her mother’s looks, which make my heart ache every time I look at her.

“Ream?” she asks.

“Dream, yeah,” I sigh, moving her to the side and sitting up. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Sleep!” she chirps.

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

Sarah thinks about that, then shakes her head. “No.”

I eye her with skepticism. She started potty training herself about a month ago. I’m always a little weirded out to find out she went to the bathroom by herself.

“I frush,” she says, matter of factly. I interpret that to mean that she did go by herself.

“Alright. Are you hungry?” I ask, moving to my feet.

“Yeah!!” she says, instantly cheerful at the mention of a meal. What can I say, the kid loves food.

“Okay. Let’s pick some clothes out, then,” I say, offering her my hand.

We go through the minutiae of an early morning routine. I manage to distract her with dry cereal and cartoons on my iPad for long enough to grab an ultra quick shower.

In a way, it’s good that I’m busy trying to bathe Sarah, or trying to help her pick out clothes. Because I can’t worry about what I plan to do next, which is to show up unannounced at my dad’s house with Sarah in tow.

My dad has been estranged from me since I decided to join the Army, almost ten years ago. We fell out because I asked him to look in on Mom occasionally while I was at boot camp.

“There is a reason I divorced her,” he snarled at me. “Bitch is fucking crazy.”

But not too crazy to leave your young son with, I guess, I thought.

Yeah, better to worry about packing enough snacks and backup pairs of underwear for Sarah. I’ve become the master of swallowing my fears, worrying about what’s in front of me as opposed to anything in the future.

An hour and a half after she wakes me up, we’re both dressed and as ready as we’re going to get. I carry Sarah, my laptop bag, and her diaper bag outside.

I squint against the early morning light as I make my way to my sedan. I see the landlady, Larkin, locking her door.

I instinctively glance away, but one glance was enough to have Larkin burned into my brain.