“It was such a waste of a good person. Because yeah, he did some shitty things, but he was suffering. Now, those of us he left behind have to live with the question of whether we did enough. And he’ll never have a chance to get better.” She shook her head as she let out a long sigh. “Anyway, that’s why I didn’t give up, why I kept leaving you those voicemails… I guess something told me you needed someone who wouldn’t give up on you.”
“Wow…” I whispered.
“Wow… what?” she asked, sounding a bit self-conscious.
“The way the moonlight shines in your eyes is mesmerizing.”
She rolled her eyes. “Are you making fun of me? Trying to say I’m corny?”
I laughed and reached for her, grabbing her jaw to turn her face toward me. “I’m not making fun of you,” I said, my gaze landing on her mouth. “But the light shining in your eyes reminded me of something.”
“Of what,” she murmured, her chest heaving as I leaned closer.
I smiled as my lips hovered over hers. “I’ll tell you later.”
I heard her breath hitch as I brushed my lips over her jaw, the tip of my nose grazing her earlobe.
“You smell like cinnamon,” I whispered in her ear.
She chuckled nervously. “It’s the pumpkin pie,” she replied, then gasped as my other hand landed on the small of her back and I planted a soft kiss on her neck. “Oh, God.”
I dragged my mouth lightly over her jaw, my hand still holding her face gently as I turned it toward me again. She licked her lips and I took that as my cue to kiss her. Her lips were soft and wet and tasted like whipped cream. Sliding my tongue in slowly, I got hints of cranberry and cinnamon.
“You taste like a holiday,” I murmured, and her lips curved against mine. I slowly pulled my head back, smiling at the dazed look on her face. “You’re gorgeous.”
She bit her lip and grinned as she continued petting Boomer. “So are you.”
With a bit of prompting, I got Emily to tell me more about herself. She told me that, other than today and when she dropped me off the other night, she had never been to Stillwater. Her family moved to Minneapolis when she was sixteen and she was pretty sheltered until she went to college in Chicago. She graduated two and a half years ago and moved back to Minneapolis.
“Stillwater is literally one of the most beautiful cities in the world,” I said, incredulous. “I’m gonna have to give you a tour of my hometown soon.”
“So how about you?” she said. “You said you were a sniper in the military. Did you earn any awards or medals?”
I smiled. “A few. But the ones I’m most proud of are my marksmanship badges. I have five rifle qualification badges and a silver and bronze pistol badge. I’m what they call a ‘Distinguished Marksman.’”
“Ooh, fancy,” she teased me. “Do you use your pistol to scoop Grey Poupon out of a jar?”
I shook my head. “I have more distinguished jobs for my pistol.”
She laughed. “Wow. I really walked into that one, didn’t I?” She shrugged as she looked down and realized Boomer was asleep on her lap, prompting her to lower her voice a little. “Do you ever miss the military?”
“Every day,” I replied without hesitation. “One of the reasons I enlisted was to be able to see the world. To see how other people lived… I still want to travel, but it feels like I kind of missed the chance to go to college and study abroad. Not many exchange programs for old, mentally ill combat vets.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I told you I work as a freelance Mandarin translator. So I spent a year abroad in China, and I think there were a couple of exchange students in their late twenties. I don’t know. I could be totally wrong about their ages. I’m bad at guessing that stuff.” She looked at me, studying my face for a minute. “How old are you? Twenty-three?”
“Ha-ha. Very funny,” I said, leaning back on my hands. “I’m twenty-eight. Twenty-nine in January. How old are you?”
“Twenty-four. Twenty-five last June.”
I shook my head. “No shame in hitting that quarter-century milestone. I know plenty of guys who wished they’d made it there.”
“I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me.”
I laughed. “No, it wasn’t. You were making a joke about your age. Don’t ever feel like you have to handle me with kid gloves, especially when it comes to humor. I’ve learned to see humor in even the darkest of circumstances. It’s the only thing that gets me through sometimes.”
Chapter 9
Laurel
I left my second group counseling session feeling a bit better than I had since my last conversation with Jack. I’d spent most of the past few days sulking in the guest bedroom at Drea’s house. She finally coaxed me out yesterday with the threat of manual labor. She threatened to make me cook the entire Thanksgiving dinner if I didn’t stop moping.
“It should be illegal to have a holiday dedicated to being grateful, that also requires slaving over a dozen different dishes so complicated you only make them once a year,” were Drea’s exact words.
As I slid into my SUV, I shot off a text to Drea letting her know I’d be there soon and asking if she needed me to stop and get anything at the supermarket. Not that I wanted to brave the grocery store on the night before Thanksgiving.
* * *
Drea:
All I need is you and your American gratitude. My British cynicism is about to throw this turkey out the window and order takeaway.
* * *
Me:
No one will be delivering food tomorrow. It’s a national holiday. Fear not. My gratitude and I are on the way.
* * *
I arrived at Drea’s house precisely twenty-two minutes later, and walked into the kitchen to find her attempting to pull open the refrigerator door with her elbow. “What are you doing?”
“I need the lemons, but I have turkey fingers!” she bellowed.
I laughed as I pushed her out of the way and grabbed three lemons out of the fruit drawer. “Your cheeks are fire-engine-red. You look like you’re ready to pass out.”
She used the back of her forearm to brush the bangs off her sweaty forehead. “The stupid turkey wasn’t fully defrosted. Fucking Butterball website and their stupid thawing calculator. I just spent fifteen minutes wrestling the bag of giblets out of its… crevice.”
I smiled and grabbed a tumbler out of the cupboard to get her a glass of cold water. “Here,” I said, placing the cup on the counter next to her, then quickly grabbing it before she could pick it up. “Wash your hands first.”
“Oh, right. Of course,” she muttered as she headed for the sink.
“Where are the boys?” I asked as casually as I could.
As much as I loved Drea, and Barry was just as witty, my favorite part of staying with them was spending time with Thom and Colin. Knowing Drea, she had probably caught on right away and was being a good friend by not mentioning it. But I loved seeing their little faces light up whenever they saw me.
Just the night before, four-year-old Thom fell asleep on my lap while we were watching Finding Dory. I brushed my fingers through his soft, brown curls until Barry came in to take him to bed. As Barry walked away with Thom’s head resting on his shoulder, I couldn’t help but think of Jack and Junior, and how badly I needed someone who would understand what I was feeling in that moment.
“I think I’m falling in love with your kids,” I said as I held the brine bucket steady while Drea pulled the turkey out and placed it a roasting pan on the counter.
“Most obvious statement of the century,” Drea replied as she picked black peppercorns off the turkey and tossed them into the bucket. “You’re welcome to take them with you when you get a place.”
I sighed as I began quartering more lemons to stuff inside the turkey’s cavity. “I really want to get a place of my own. My nesting urge is even worse than it was with Junior. But I can’t sign a lease until I know whether Jack and I are getting back together. I’m still hol
ding out hope.”
“Pass me the herbs,” she said, pointing at the glass of water behind the sink, which held a bundle of rosemary and thyme. “Have you two talked since your little row?”
“It wasn’t exactly a little row,” I replied, handing her the glass. “He accused me of being a stranger.”
“Right,” she said, making a squeamish expression as she stuffed the herbs into the turkey’s cavity. “Well, maybe Thanksgiving would be a good time to give him a call. You know, do whatever you Americans do on Thanksgiving.”
I bit my lip until it stung, but I couldn’t stop tears from welling up in my eyes as I thought of Jack celebrating Thanksgiving with his parents without me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, and rushed to the bathroom to wash my turkey hands in private.
I dried my hands and put the lid down before sitting on the toilet. Sliding my phone out of the pocket of my jeans, I stared at the screen for a long while, lost in thought. I tried to imagine what Jack might be doing at that moment. Was he still at home getting ready to leave? Was he helping his mom and dad with the cooking? Or was he sitting on the couch with his siblings, Jessica and John, watching football and drinking beer? Was he wondering what I was doing?
A few minutes later, just as I was about to hit send on a call to Jack, someone knocked on the bathroom door. “It’s me. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay in there?” Drea called out.
I slid the phone back into my pocket and opened the door. “I’m fine. It’s the pregnancy hormones.”
“You sure?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Let’s go finish this stupid American holiday.”
She smiled. “You’re becoming more British every day. Soon, you’ll be apologizing constantly and refusing to look anyone in the eye.”
As I came out of the bathroom, Barry was coming toward us with a grave expression on his face.
“You have a visitor,” he whispered, stepping to the side so I could get past him.
I nodded as I continued down the corridor. As I stepped into the foyer, my heart raced at the sight of Jack standing on the front doorstep in the rain.
“What are you doing out there?” I asked. “Come in.”
He shook his head. “I’m not staying. I just need to talk to you.”
I ignored the sharp pain in my chest, like a knife twisting in my heart. “Okay,” I said, stepping outside.
The eves of the house provided a small amount of shelter from the rain if I stood close to the door. But Jack didn’t seem interested in staying dry. He stared at me for a moment, saying nothing.
“What are you thinking?” I asked, my hand gripping the doorknob to hold myself steady.
He quickly pulled off his coat and put it around me, covering my head with the collar. “I’m thinking about that email you sent me,” he said as he looked down at me, his nose inches from mine.
I swallowed hard. “What about it?”
His eyes were locked on mine for a moment, then he glanced at my mouth for a split second before he took a step backward. “I know that what happened isn’t all your fault. I know I played a big role in pushing you away and making you feel like it was over,” he said, his gaze now trained on the ground. “But I’m still so fucking angry. All the time. I just can’t make it stop.” He looked up and the sadness in his eyes brought me to tears. “But I’m trying. I’m… seeing a therapist.”
I sniffed. “That’s good. That makes me so happy,” I said, wiping my face. “I started going to group counseling. It’s been really helpful, actually. I was afraid they’d judge me, but everyone there has the same fear.” I paused for a moment to collect myself. “There are so many people struggling after losing someone. It’s just… I know it’s a part of life, but it really fucking sucks.”
He laughed as he stepped forward to pull the coat tightly around me. “It really does. Are you still working on the PTSD app?”
I wanted to look up and into those blue eyes I missed so much, but I didn’t want him to step back again the way he had earlier. So I kept my gaze locked on his damp Blazers T-shirt.
“Yeah, I’m still working on it. But I’m thinking of creating an entire suite of apps. Like one for PTSD, another for dealing with grief, and… some other ones…” I said, my voice trailing off as I realized he was still standing so close I could feel the heat of his chest on my face.
“Laurel, look at me.”
I sighed as I looked up. My whole body ached as I waited for him to kiss me. It didn’t have to be on the lips. A forehead kiss or a peck on the cheek would do. But he didn’t.
“I don’t know how to feel about what you did,” he said, reaching up to brush the moisture off my cheek with his thumb. “All I know is that every time I think about it, I’m filled with this rage that feels justified and misplaced at the same time. I’m… really fucking confused.”
“I’m sorry, Jack.”
“I know. I know you’re sorry,” he replied, nodding his head, almost as if he was trying to convince himself that my apology was genuine. “I just need some more time.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. I tried swallowing the lump in my throat, but it didn’t work.
“Laurel, are you okay?”
I swallowed again a couple more times before I managed to push the words out. “It feels like you’ll never be able to look at me the same way.”
He sighed and pulled me into his arms, but he didn’t contradict me, which made his embrace bittersweet. I wanted to bury my face in his shirt as he assured me we’d get through this, but that wasn’t what happened. He held me tightly, but he never said another word.
I let go first. It hurt too much to be so close yet so far away.
He accepted the coat as I handed it back to him. “I want to be there for all the baby’s appointments. Not just the ultrasounds. Is that okay?”
“Of course it is,” I replied. “I should get inside. Drea needs my help.”
He nodded, looking somewhat disappointed. “I came here to ask you to promise me something.” His gaze penetrated me as he seemed to contemplate his words. “I need you to promise me you won’t go anywhere alone.”
I shook my head. “Why?”
He drew in a sharp breath through his nose as his body seemed to tense up. “I got a call from Detective Robinson. They verified through cell tower pings that both Brandon and his father were in Hood River that night. They executed a search warrant on both of their homes and Robinson called me today with some disturbing information.”
My heart raced. “What? What did they find?”
“They think it’s highly likely that you were the original target.” He paused for a moment. “They think what probably happened was that they waited until we left. Then, their plan was for Brandon to wait outside in the car while Byron went in to toss the house and make it look like a robbery. Then, he was going to wait for us to come back. But he was surprised by your mom. They’re pretty certain it was Byron who did it because he had knee surgery about a decade ago, which would account for the killer’s distinct gait. And they’re now thinking he might have also killed his wife, Dottie.”
I gasped in horror. “He was trying to kill me? And he’s still out there? But why? What did I do?”
Jack shook his head as he gently grasped my shoulders. “It’s not what you did. It’s who you are and what you represent.” He wrapped the coat around me again as he continued to speak. “After Dottie died, Brandon found out, through her will, that he was adopted. It’s likely Byron told him that your mom had another child that she didn’t give up for adoption. The FBI profiler who’s assisting Boise PD thinks Byron may have stoked Brandon’s resentment toward you, until Brandon believed the only way to make himself feel better would be to kill you to punish your mom. Then, your mom would know how he felt.”
I suddenly felt numb, unable to cry or curse. “I’m so tired of this. When is it going to end? Now I have to take someone with me everywhere I go? For what, so they can be killed, too?” I sh
ook my head. “No, I refuse to bring anyone else into this. And I refuse to live my life in fear of this sicko. I can’t promise you I’ll take someone with me everywhere I go. I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”
He let out a deep sigh. “I know you’re right. I know you can’t spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder. I’m just trying to keep you and the baby safe.”
The tension in my muscles dissolved as I finally understood why we were on the brink of divorce. “You have to stop being afraid of what’s going to happen to me. What happened that night was not your fault. They weren’t killed because you failed to protect them. And if something happens to me, it won’t be because you failed to protect me. We have to stop being so afraid. We’ve spent the last two years being afraid of everything. Afraid the killer will come back to finish us; afraid others will think Junior’s death was our fault; afraid our marriage will be the next casualty; afraid we’ll never be happy again. The fear is killing us. I don’t want to be afraid anymore.”
The muscle in his jaw twitched as his gaze locked on my eyes. “Fear isn’t always a bad thing.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to argue with you, Jack. And if you really want to keep me safe, stop pushing me away.”
“Laurel—”
“I know. You need time to figure things out,” I said, handing him his coat. “Take as long as you need. But I can’t stand here and pretend I’m okay with losing you.”