Needing Noel | Chapter Eight
It was hot for October; ninety seven degrees. But after three months above a hundred and five he, like pretty much everyone else in the valley, had had the discomfort cooked right out of him. Hell, ninety seven felt almost pleasant.
Phoenix felt like too open a city, too flat. There was too much room, too much visibility. The roads were wide in the heart of downtown, an area that, in most cities, would be filled with a million suited businesspeople, packed together as tightly as the premium real estate would bear and spinning the wheel of industry together. And because of the unrestricted terrain of the open Arizona desert allowed Phoenix to the luxury to grow as far to the horizon as the free enterprise system would take it, Reid felt exposed and conspicuous.
He almost lost Noel’s car three times, only to find her for the last time parked in front of the Dial building on Central Avenue.
Reid adjusted the thermostat down five degrees and waited as a fresh rush of conditioned air dried the sweat on his skin. He then pulled a chair up to his computer desk. 
Noel pulled the car into the driveway of their rented house, put the transmission into park, but made no move to open the garage door. The dawning sun teased the horizon. "So you're not going to talk to me now?" 
Reid gripped the pen light between his teeth and pointed it at the wrought iron gate. He slipped off one glove. The gate was cool to the touch and coarse, layers of paint over rust. He slipped in the key and turned. The locked clicked gently and the gate fell slightly open.
Reid Nelson checked the time. Three fifteen. He rubbed his eyes. He had been focused with such intensity on the computer screen in front of him, he hadn’t noticed time get away. Programming had a way of swallowing his entire world. 
Fifty-two year old Constance Widowmaker stowed her lunch bag beneath her desk. Her telephone extension was ringing. The display showed that the call was ringing in on the customer accounts help line. She let it ring; the small chrome clock on her desk told her she still had a minute left of her lunch break and she firmly believed that if you started to give the company a minute here and a minute there, they’d take over your life before you knew it.
Christian woke the next morning in the guest room of his sister’s house. The house was silent. The mid-morning sun baked through the partially opened blinds. It already looked about a hundred degrees outside. There was a note on the bedside table from Gabrielle wishing him good morning and saying that she'd gone to the office for the day already.
Christian lay on his couch, one arm draped to the floor, the other pinned beneath him. He rolled over to relieve the pressure and found himself staring at the familiar sight of his den. 
Christian Jones stirred in his sleep. He rolled over to his wife’s side of the bed. His hand fell into something wet.