Chapter 8 Isaiah
ISAIAH
“Ouch. Son of a bitch.” A pan clanked in the sink.
I rushed out of the bathroom to find Genevieve in the kitchen, her hand under a stream of water. “What happened?”
She hung her head. “I burned my finger.”
I was beside her in a flash, my hands diving into the cold water to retrieve hers and assess the damage. There was a pink spot on her index finger, but it didn’t look serious.
“It’s fine.” She wrenched her hand out of my grip and returned it to the faucet.
I wasn’t sure how she’d burned her finger. With the mood she was in, I wasn’t going to ask either.
One month had passed since Genevieve had told me she wanted to find her mother’s killer. Like I’d warned her, there just wasn’t anything to find—something she was struggling to accept.
As the days of August drew to a close, she’d become more and more frustrated. The two of us had spent hours talking with Bryce and Dash. We’d gone over everything that they’d found since Amina had been murdered. Twice.
Genevieve had even spent a few hours with Draven, getting his point of view. There were things about the motorcycle club that none of them had wanted to share. We didn’t push. And at the end of it all, we were just as stuck as everyone else.
She kept studying this notebook, poring over the pages. I wasn’t sure what she’d written down, but she’d always close it with a huff and shove it into her purse, angrier after reading through her notes than she had been before.
Bryce didn’t offer her much comfort either.
If anything, those two would get together and spin each other up.
They met at least once a week for coffee while Dash and I took turns standing guard.
Mostly, they talked about Bryce and Dash’s upcoming wedding because Bryce had surprised Genevieve and asked if she’d be matron of honor.
But there were times when their conversation turned to the murder investigation or the kidnapping.
The two of them would storm out of the coffee shop fuming mad.
No matter how much we talked about it, no matter how many times they looked at the events from one angle or another, there was no trail to follow.
The man who’d killed Genevieve’s mother was in the wind. He’d get away with murder and kidnapping, leaving Draven to take the fall.
Draven’s trial was set for the first week of December.
Genevieve would come home spouting updates from Jim and legal jargon I didn’t catch about motions and hearings.
I’d learned the basics during my own experience with the justice system, but Draven’s situation was different—he’d pleaded not guilty.
We all dreaded the trial. Once it started, it would be nearly impossible to get the police and prosecutors to consider another suspect unless we handed one to them on a silver platter. Hell, they were as closed-minded about it now as ever.
Genevieve was losing hope. It was washing away faster than the water down the sink’s drain.
She kept her head down, glaring at the pan as she let her finger cool.
“Still hurt?” I took her hand out of the water again. This time she didn’t jerk it away.
“It’s fine.” Her shoulders fell. “It stings.”
“What happened?”
“I was boiling water for pasta and when I picked up the pan, the water sloshed. It was a stupid mistake because I wasn’t paying attention.”
In the last month, I’d caught her staring into space a dozen times, totally lost in thought.
“I’m so . . .” She growled, pulling her hand free and stalking away from the sink. “Mad. I’m so mad.”
I preferred Mad Genevieve over Sad Genevieve.
When she’d moved here, there had been times when she’d been so close to tears. She’d tried to hide them in the shower each morning. Amina’s death, the kidnapping and this marriage had taken their toll.
But I hadn’t seen tears lately. Instead, her eyes were fixed in a constant glare, and she barked at inanimate objects. Yesterday she’d scolded a hook in the bathroom for not holding her towel the right way.
“I get it.” If I were in her position, I’d be pissed too.
“I wish we had something, anything, to go on.”
There were no clues left at the clubhouse about the man who’d broken in and stolen Draven’s knife to kill Amina. The Warriors had disappeared since their surprise trip to the garage. They were either waiting to catch us all by surprise, or they were stuck too.
If they found out that Genevieve and I had been the ones in that cabin, we were already dead.
“Let’s get out of here. Stop thinking about it for a day.”
She stopped pacing. “Where do you want to go?”
“Leo’s coming in today to paint my bike. We’re going to work through the design. Come down and help. See how it turns out.”
“Okay. Can we grab some lunch?”
“Sure.”
“Give me five to change.” She walked over to the new dresser and pulled a pair of denim shorts from the middle drawer. She disappeared into the bathroom while I dried the pot in the sink and put it away.
I leaned against the counter, waiting for her to emerge, and took in the place.
It was cramped, for sure, but not uncomfortable.
Since her belongings had arrived, Genevieve had spent most Saturdays organizing the apartment.
She’d shuffle things around for hours, attempting to make space.
The UPS guy delivered some sort of container or storage piece about every damn day.
But she’d done it. The boxes were gone to the recycling bin and everything had its place.
Her clothes hung in the closet and on a rolling rack pushed against the wall beside the bed. There was a new dresser that had arrived in a flat box. She’d assembled it two Saturdays ago while I’d been in the shop. I’d planned to do it for her, but she’d finished before I had the chance.
She didn’t need help—or maybe didn’t want it. It was strange to live with a woman so self-sufficient. Though my only comparison was Mom. My older brother Kaine and I were always doing jobs for Mom. Fixing a gutter. Hanging a shelf. Mowing the lawn or touching up some paint.
Shannon had been like that too. She wouldn’t try to open a stuck jar of spaghetti sauce. She’d just hand it over with a smile.
Not Genevieve. Last week she’d fought with a jar of pickles for ten minutes before it had been too painful to watch and I’d taken it from her, opening it with a pop.
Had she said thank you? No. She’d scowled and told me she’d almost had it.
Genevieve was self-reliant, a woman who needed no confidant or companion.
I suspected it was a new thing since her mother’s death.
Amina had let her down, epically. Maybe Genevieve was sheltering herself to avoid future pain.
Or maybe she was proving to herself she could stand on her own two feet. That she could survive this.
Whatever the reason, living with her was an adjustment.
Not in a bad way. Just an adjustment.
But as roommates went, she was the best I’d ever had—that was, if you considered cellmates as roommates. Living with Genevieve was easier than living with Mom too.
Mom worried too much. She pitied me too much.
Genevieve’s bath products cluttered the shower. There was always makeup residue on the sink and strands of her hair on the floor. But I’d take that messy bathroom over a cellmate who snored or punched me while I slept for no damn reason other than he could.
“Ready.” She came out of the bathroom no longer wearing her pajama pants but shorts and a plain gray tank top. She slipped on some flip-flops and grabbed her purse.
My eyes zeroed in on her long legs and I swallowed a groan. We’d been living together for weeks. Wasn’t it supposed to get easier? When would she stop being that beautiful woman naked in my shower and start being just . . . Genevieve? My roommate who happened to have my last name?
Kissing her every morning before work wasn’t helping. I’d stopped counting because the higher the number climbed, the more frustrated I was that each was more excruciating to bear than the last.
Every morning I had to fight my own goddamn tongue from tasting her lower lip. Just like today I had to force my eyes away from those legs.
“What do you feel like eating?” she asked.
I swallowed hard. “Sandwich work for you?”
“Is the grocery store deli okay? I need to pick up a few other things too.”
“Fine by me.” I held the door for her and as we walked down the stairs, I dug my bike’s keys from my pocket. “Lead the way.”
“You’re not going to ride with me?”
“No.”
She blinked. “Why not?”
Ghosts. But it wasn’t something I had the guts to explain. “I want to take the bike out before Leo gets here, make sure all the tweaks are done,” I lied.
“Oh. Should I ride with you?”
I shook my head. “No space for groceries.”
That, and I didn’t ride with other people. I hadn’t for six years. I definitely didn’t drive other people, not even Mom. If Mom and I went on a trip to visit Kaine in Lark Cove, we took two vehicles, even though it was a five-hour trip.
The one and only exception was the day I’d driven Genevieve off that mountain. It was the only time another person had ridden with me on the bike because there hadn’t been another choice.
“Fine,” she muttered, taking her keys from her purse.
I followed close behind her car as she weaved through town and parked beside her at the store. We walked into the store, not speaking and definitely not touching. We stood a foot apart at the deli, both assessing the premade sandwich and salad options.
My insistence on riding separately hadn’t helped Genevieve’s mood, but a grumpy wife I could handle.
A dead one, I could not.
“Oh, hey, guys.”
We both spun around at Bryce’s voice. I stepped toward Genevieve, instantly closing the gap between us. She slid her arm behind my back. We’d perfected this move—the smashing of our bodies together so it looked like we were newlyweds.
“Hey.” Genevieve smiled.
I looked past Bryce. Dash wouldn’t let her come here alone, would he? “Where’s Dash?”
“He’s lost in the ice cream aisle. I came to buy some veggies to balance us out. What are you guys up to?”