Phoebe gave John a withering look then turned away. She
stormed up the stairs and shut the door with a bang.
Idiot.
Who did he think he was anyway? Questioning her
motives. Her motives were the same as his. All right, maybe she was more
interested in the money, but he was too.
The house they lived in was old. The market was good. Selling
seemed to be the right thing to do. Just thinking about a brand new house gave
her butterflies. New carpet, appliances that worked, no incessant creaking.
John let his emotions control him. Sentimentality killed
Phoebe. Why hang on to things? She just didn’t understand.
With a sigh, she plopped on the bed. At least it was new. She closed her eyes trying
to block out the look on John’s face when she’d told him she called a realtor. Ridiculous.
The sound of a door closing downstairs made Phoebe open her eyes. She looked at the bedroom door and sighed. Her eyes wandered to the ceiling above her and her breath caught in her throat.
There on the textured ceiling was a footprint. Phoebe cocked
her head to the side. Maybe it was…no, a footprint. More precise, a bootprint. A
man’s size. John didn’t own any boots.
Before she could ponder further, Phoebe heard a noise.
Footsteps on the hardwood stairs. Slow, steady, purposeful steps. Hadn’t John just
left? The steps stopped outside her room. Phoebe leaned up on one elbow.
Just outside her doorway she could see the tips of
two, large, tan boots.
