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Show 119 shut. It was over quickly, and within three minutes, Hunt was back on the patio, alone. "Where . . .?" Leah's eyes flashed their own particular muted terror. Hunt could see her reading him, knowing that - Why? Why did he do it? - knowing Hunt had been Hunt. She bit the knuckles on her right hand. Lane Pierson narrowed his eyes and kept checking the patio door for his wife's and the other neighbors' delayed entrance. Hunt could see Leah's dread of his revelation. "Where are the others?" she finally asked. "They ..." Hunt could see that he had Lane Pierson's focus now. He took a breath.' "They went home," he said. His face was the face of a young boy, freshly aware that, for really the best of reasons, he had done something unforgiveably wrong. "Home?" Lane Pierson snapped the word out, hard grained, as though he were clearing his throat. "Home?" Leah joined the chorus. "Hunt, what did you say . . .?" Hunt watched as Leah closed her eyes. Could he explain to her? Could he explain, again, that it was only that he loved the world - and therefore painted it, all of it, so that he might give it all away . . . the way a child gives gifts? Would she ever understand that it just was very hard for him, on such occasions of gift, to ever think of consequences? Hunt saw Leah's life with him pool and eddy under her lids. And now Lane Pierson was aware of Leah. "Hey, You okay? You okay, Babes?" |