Chapter 22
CASSANDRA
You okay?
I rolled my eyes at Leo’s text and typed back a quick reply.
I’m okay. You don’t need to text me every fifteen minutes.
Leo didn’t respond. Probably because he’d just keep texting me every fifteen minutes no matter what I said.
Over the past two weeks, life had returned to normal. Or as much normal as could be expected.
The day of the accident, Emmett had gone home and pulled the security footage from the cameras at the garage.
An hour of looking hadn’t shown anything on the day or night before Leo’s incident with the jack.
Even after his initial assessment, Emmett had kept going backward, but there’d been nothing to indicate foul play.
It had likely been a faulty seal from the manufacturer.
The local junkyard owner had gone to look at Leo’s old truck and examine the brake lines. He hadn’t been able to tell, so Dash himself had gone out to inspect it.
Given that the truck had been built in the eighties, cutting a single brake line wouldn’t cause them all to fail—I’d learned more about dual master cylinders than I’d ever cared to know.
The only way to completely disable the brakes would be to cut all lines, forcing the hydraulic fluid to rush out.
The pedal would have slammed to the floor before he’d ever backed out of the driveway.
There’d been too much rust and age on the lines and hoses to tell for sure, but Dash thought it was possible someone might have caused a leak by puncturing them. He’d also thought it could have been natural corrosion, especially given the salt on the roads that time of year.
Two accidents with no explanation.
Doubt had been sitting on our shoulders like the devil, whispering in our ears.
We’d never know if either of Leo’s accidents had been failed attempts to cause him harm. And we’d likely never know who had tried to run me off the road.
Luke’s officers hadn’t found a white car on any traffic cameras in town, probably because they had pulled onto a gravel road to flee after the accident. Maybe it had been someone with a serious case of road rage. Maybe not.
If Leo had been protective before, he was downright paranoid now. The fact that he’d actually let me stay home alone today was a miracle. For the first week after the accident, any time he’d had to go to work, he’d insisted that Seraphina and I go along too.
So we’d joined Presley and her son, Nico, at the garage.
We’d crowded into the waiting room with Scarlett and Mary, taking over and creating a play space.
Since Genevieve was on maternity leave from work, she’d joined us too.
Bryce had commandeered Dash’s office, using it to write for her newspaper.
Maybe a different set of friends would have grown sick of one another after two weeks, but it worked for us. We’d each pitched in to help with kids. The mom tasks had been shared and the girls had even given me an hour free each day to swap places with Bryce and write.
Today was the first day we hadn’t gathered at the garage. Dash didn’t work on Fridays, so he’d stayed home with his family. Presley had taken the day off to spend it with Shaw. Genevieve and Scarlett were at their respective homes on my parents’ street.
Maybe everyone was having doubts about the accidents. Little by little, we were lightening up.
Leo had asked me to come to the garage but I’d craved a normal day at home.
I’d wanted to spend time at the desk he’d built for me.
He knew how much I wanted to make progress on this book.
Today I’d planned to finish the chapter I’d been working on over the week, but between Leo’s texts and the messages from the girls, each of us having decided that alone time was overrated, I’d written a whole ten words.
There was no deadline for this project, but I’d had an idea last night and my fingers itched to type it out.
My parents had taken today off work to prepare for a camping trip over the weekend, but instead of packing, they’d begged for a few hours with Seraphina.
This was their first camping trip of the summer—very unlike them—probably because they were soaking in as much time with the baby as possible.
I’d graciously accepted their babysitting, hoping that with a few hours free I could get the thoughts out of my head and into my document.
“Okay, no more phone.” I set it aside, putting my fingers to the laptop.
Five words in and the phone rang.
“Seriously, Leo.”
The alarm was set. I had a can of pepper spray on the desk beside my notebook and a pen. Leo had walked me through how to use it before he’d hemmed and hawed about leaving for the garage.
The ringing continued and if I didn’t answer him, he’d worry, so I picked up the phone, only to find Olive’s name on the screen.
“Hey,” I answered, surprise thick in my voice. Olive and I hadn’t spoken in ages, not since after my baby shower. We’d had a few texts here and there, the occasional photo of Seraphina, but otherwise we’d done exactly what I’d expected—drifted apart. “How are you?”
“Hey. I’m the worst friend ever for not calling. Things have been so busy here.”
I laughed. “I haven’t exactly called either.”
“You have a baby. You have an excuse.”
“You’ve got school. I know how consuming that can be.”
For the first time, thinking about school didn’t come with a twinge of envy. I ran a hand over the top of my desk. My favorite books sat on their shelves. And the laptop screen in front of me wasn’t open to a paper or grueling assignment, but a book. My book.
Seraphina’s nursery was across the hall. Leo’s scent, cedar and spice and wind, clung to the air.
I wouldn’t trade anything in this world, not an academic career complete with accolades, to sit anywhere else.
“What’s new?” she asked.
“Oof.” I blew out a long breath. Where to start?
Maybe a year ago, I would have told her everything about the stress in our lives. Maybe I would have told her about the accident. But too much had changed.
She didn’t need details about the Arrowhead Warriors or the Tin Kings.
It was best that way.
“Seraphina is getting so big,” I said. “She’s almost sleeping through the night, which is basically a miracle. I’m biased, but she’s perfect.” Even thinking of her face made me smile.
“Of course she’s perfect,” Olive said. “How are things with Leo?”
“Good.” Another smile. “We’re getting married.”
“What?” Her shriek pierced my ear. “Congratulations!”
“Thanks.” The ring on my finger was more beautiful than I’d imagined. Maybe because I hadn’t imagined one. While I was in school, thoughts of marriage and babies had been as foreign to me as another language.
Mom was thrilled at our engagement, because over the months since Seraphina had been born, Leo had won her over simply by being an amazing father and partner. Dad was struggling but it was with sadness, not anger. I was grown up, not his little girl anymore.
Seraphina was doing a fine job filling part of that hole.
“Have you set a date?” Olive asked.
“No, not yet.” Leo and I had talked about it just last night, but he was so fearful at the moment. I was nervous too. So until more of the Warriors were sentenced and this string of unlucky accidents passed, we were going to forgo planning.
We’d have a wedding when it was time.
“Are you going for a big affair or small?”
“Leo and I both want something small and intimate,” I said. “I’d be okay getting married at a park or in my parents’ backyard. I don’t know. Originally I was thinking of throwing the whole fancy party, and then I got tired just thinking about the flowers and cake.”
Olive laughed. “That doesn’t surprise me at all. You love simple.”
“I do.” I smiled. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you too. My roommates here are no fun.”
I laughed. “Tell me everything about school.”
We talked for thirty minutes about her classes and professors. I waited, wondering if I’d feel that sting of regret, but as she talked, all I felt was relief not to be balancing university stress with Seraphina.
Olive would make a brilliant PhD one day. Her dream was to work at a museum, and I hoped that we remained in touch long enough so I could see her achieve that goal. Only time would tell.
“How is transcription work going?” she asked.
“It’s actually quite enjoyable. But I haven’t taken a job since Seraphina was born. I’ve actually been, um . . . writing. Fiction. Historical fiction.” I held my breath. Outside my group of friends here, Olive was the first person I’d told.
“Fiction.” She seemed to ponder it for a moment.
“Oh, I love that for you. I mean, you always said you wanted to write a book. And let’s be honest, nonfiction can get a little dry if that’s all you are reading—hello, that’s my life right now.
Why not infuse some imagination in there? Can I read it first?”
Relief washed over me. If Olive was supportive, maybe I hadn’t completely sold out my dreams. “Second. I already promised Leo that he gets it first.”
“I’ll take it whenever you’re ready to share. What’s it about? Where’d you come up with the idea? Tell me everything.”
I opened my mouth and when I finally stopped talking, another thirty minutes had passed.
“This is brilliant,” she said.
“You think?”
“I love it.”
“Even if I do nothing with it, writing it has been fun.”
My story was set in the late 1800s in what would become the Redwood National Park. Since our trip there, that place would always hold a special piece of my heart and I couldn’t imagine setting my first book anywhere else.
The tale was of two sisters, Helen and Ruth, coming of age at the turn of the century. Helen, the oldest, was kidnapped, taken from her own garden by a man who lived in a remote area of the forest. He’d seen her and wanted her as his bride.
And men, now and then, took what they wanted from females, with or without their permission.