Not Since You Read Online Free Page B

window.
    "Carrie, open up!"
    Amazingly, she did. "Why the hell are you on the roof?" She held the phone out. "I was calling the cops, until I realized it was you."
    "Why the hell didn't you answer the door?"
    "I was asleep." She noticed him noticing her nightie, and tied the sash on her robe. "You found it."
    "The door?"
    "The dog, you moron. Get in here, before someone sees you."
    Zack slipped through, first one leg, then his head and shoulders, then his other leg. He looked around. The bedroom hadn't changed a bit. The wallpaper was the same. So were the Backstreet Boy and Third Eye Blind posters.
    Her bed was in the same spot, the sheets turned down and twisted as if she and he had just left them.
    He'd never made love to her on a bed, but if he did…
    His groin tightened even more.
    Behind him, Carrie slammed the window shut. Then she pushed past him and out of the room, almost as if she were running away.
    He left the bed with reluctance and followed down the stairs to the foyer, where Carrie leaned with her cheek pressed against the front door and her eyes wide. Listening. "She stopped howling. You don't think she got loose…again?"
    "I don't think so." Zack opened the door. Ellie sat on the welcome mat, panting. The leash dangled from her collar. He couldn't believe it; it was strong enough to hold a bear, for crying out loud. "Damn. She snapped her leash!"
    "You're kidding," Carrie muttered behind him. "Really. What a surprise."
    He opened the door; Ellie came in without hesitation, went into the living room and jumped onto the yellow chintz armchair in the corner by the front window, settling her chin on the armrest. She sighed deeply and closed her eyes.
    "Well, that's that." Zack turned to Carrie and looked at her—really looked at her—for the first time in eighteen years. Shock jolted through him—she looked as though she'd been in a prizefight. She had a scrape on her little pointed chin, a welt under her eye, and a mouse on her cheekbone. Her knees were swathed in bandages. One of her feet had a huge purple bruise on it, and there was a bandage around the top of the tall toe. "Holy crap, Carrie-da , you look like hell!"
                  "Hello to you, too. And I'm not your querida anymore, so don't call me that." She pointed to the door. "Thank you for bringing Ellie home. You can leave, now."
                  "I will not. Not until you tell me what happened to you." Zack turned and went into the kitchen, stopping for a moment to look around.
                  Nothing had changed. The house was still the same. Circa 1972. "House needs work." He opened the olive-drab fridge, pulled out a can of Diet Coke and popped the top. Then he sat down at the table. He wasn't going to leave easily, and the sooner she realized his intention, the better. He took a sip of soda. "I'd start with updating the appliances."
                  "No wonder you're a cop. Nothing gets past you." She leaned in the doorway. Her body language screamed mistrust and anger. But she wasn't throwing him out. So that was something , anyway.
                  "Yeah. Like—those injuries. What the hell happened?" He pushed the chair opposite him out with his toe. An invitation. But he forced himself to look down at the table instead of at her, leaving it up to Carrie whether or not she'd take the chance to sit across from him. After a few moments, she shuffled across the kitchen and gingerly lowered herself onto the chair. He looked up at her and smiled encouragingly, keeping his gaze above her neckline and trying not to inhale the vanilla-sugary scent of her soap or perfume.
                  "That—thing my Nana left me. That… dog ." She frowned and looked down at her hands. They were scraped raw, nails broken, the palms red and sore-looking. She told him her harrowing doggie tale. Poor Carrie-da .
                  "She doesn't respect you," he told her. "You're not