Chapter 16 - Lindsey
SIXTEEN
LINDSEY
“We got a good print.”
I talked with the sheriff’s investigators for three hours, and they said a lot of things. But it’s that five-word sentence that stuck with me. They said it as if it’s good news. A person I don’t know, likely a large male, was in the house I call home. Uninvited. Alone. And they have proof.
Hooray.
My neck is killing me from sitting at the kitchen table while I met with the officers. And my eyes are so heavy. My mom has been a saint with Holly. I should probably split my pay with her this week since she did as much nannying as I did, if not more.
The sun is down, it’s somehow only nine o’clock, but I feel as if it’s the wee hours of the morning and I’m just rolling in from a bender. I stand behind my mom as she bids the officers goodnight, then collapse into her arms the moment she closes the door.
“You can put your guard down now. Holly’s asleep. Dad’s asleep. Maybe it’s your turn to go to sleep.”
We both chuckle in our embrace.
“I should check my phone,” I say, straightening my spine when I realize how long it’s been sitting on the charger. Basically, the entire time the police were here.
“I got it,” my mom says, grabbing it from the breakfast nook. She taps the screen and her facial features fall.
“Did he call?” I cross the small room and take my phone in my palms.
Forty-two missed calls. Zero messages. The last call coming through . . . two minutes ago!
I tap the last incoming call from Brooks and instantly hear his phone ringing. I race to the front door and fling it open before he’s even able to bring his arm up to fully knock. I throw my arms around his neck and begin to bawl from relief and exhaustion.
“Hey . . .” His arms fold around me, and his chin closes in on the side of my face.
“Holly’s asleep. I came here because I didn’t want to be at the house alone. I’m so sorry I didn’t pick up your call. The detectives were here, and my phone was charging, and—”
Brooks’s hands move to my shoulders, and he steps back a few inches to look me in the eyes. He studies me while I run my arm over my runny nose then push the butt of my palm into each puffy eye.
“I freaked out when I couldn’t reach you. I’m not angry. I’m scared. I was scared. Now, I’m just so sorry, Linds. I should have been here.” He pulls me back against his chest, and my hands claw at the center of his T-shirt, balling it into my fists as I press my tear-soaked face against him.
“She’s a little over-tired,” my mom explains.
“I get it,” he says.
“I fixed up the spare room. Lindsey and Renleigh’s old room.
There’s more space in there now, so why don’t you both head upstairs and try to get some rest. I put Holly in my room since it’s quiet.
If she wakes up tonight, I’ll get her.” My mom squints with a kind but slightly guilty smile. “I owe my daughters plenty of favors.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I croak, slipping from Brooks’s arms to give my mom one more hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Come on,” I say to Brooks, nodding toward the stairs. “It’ll be like high school, when I used to kick Ren out of the room so I could sneak a boy in.”
“Hush your mouth, Lindsey Blackwood!” my mom chastises. She winks at me as I pass, though.
Brooks and I peek into my mom’s room where Holly is out like a light. My mom created a sleep-space for her with rolled-up quilts. I don’t rush Brooks as he hovers in the doorway. He needs to see his daughter breathe. I get it. I’ve done that with the boys.
When he’s finally satisfied, we cross the hallway and step into the spare room.
“Your mom didn’t even flinch that we’re sharing a bed,” Brooks says as he shuts my childhood door behind him. The Nirvana poster Ren hung on the back of the door is still there, and I snicker when I see it.
“She had us figured out before I did, I’m pretty sure,” I say, too tired to mind my words before I utter them.
Brooks’s gaze traps mine, and heat creeps up the back of my neck. So much for avoiding a talk about us. Nothing like being the victim of a class four felony to make one loose with their lips.
Brooks glances at the poster on the door, pointing at the somehow still vivid blue eyes on the print of Kurt Cobain. I’m pretty sure it was Nirvana’s third wave of resurgence when my sister bought that poster. Kurt really held up.
“I feel a little inadequate. Not gonna lie,” he jokes.
“Why? Because he was a celebrated rock legend and you’re playing triple-A ball in a shit town in Oklahoma?
” I quirk a brow as Brooks stares at me with his mouth agape.
He shakes with a silent laugh, then steps into me, wrapping his arms around me and taking me down on the bed with him.
We quickly settle into a comfortable position, his chest on my back.
Spooning. That’s something Brandon quit doing when the boys came along.
He always said my body didn’t fit against his the same. My hips were too wide.
What a dick.
“Did you really sneak boys in here under your mom and dad’s noses?” His voice is like velvet against my ear, and I close my eyes easily to the sound.
“I mean, it’s not like she was actually here when I did the sneaking,” I explain. “Dad’s really who I pulled one over on. And frankly, it wasn’t very hard.”
Brooks chuckles, and his body vibrates against my back. His warmth relaxes me, and for the first time since I saw the pried-open door, my pulse isn’t drumming in my ear.
“My dad was always so exhausted after spending the day out on the field coaching. I could usually count on him being out like a light in his chair by eight-thirty, the nightly sports news humming like a lullaby. All I had to do was set Ren up with a tablet and some ice cream, and I was covered for a good hour of make-out time.”
Brooks vibrates with another silent laugh, but it fades after a few seconds, leaving the two of us alone, spooning, in a room I can only describe as nineties shabby chic.
“My mom’s not great at decorating. I think it was better how my sister and I had it,” I joke. My eyes scan the wall, taking in the weird shelf with potpourri and random books I don’t think my mom’s ever read.
“I got pretty scared,” Brooks says softly.
My hands move to hold on to his right one where it rests at the center of my ribs. His left arm is bent under my head in such a way that his fingertips are able to brush the hair on top of my head.
“I didn’t mean to scare you. The voicemail cut off, and I had a feeling my message wouldn’t sound right. I was going to text you, but next thing I knew, the detectives were here, and my phone died, and—”
“I was afraid someone hurt Holly. Or that they hurt . . .” He swallows, then rests his forehead on the back of my skull. He’s talking about me. He doesn’t have to say it.
“Holly is safe. She was with my parents. And I was at my class. The one where I get to hear all the ways I’m a shitty parent . . . and a shitty wife, apparently.”
Brandon’s smug comments filter through my mind, sending a rush of adrenaline and anger through my belly. I need to bottle the feelings up again, but no matter how hard I try, the pain still sinks into my diaphragm like a fat silver bullet.
“You’re not a shitty parent, Linds,” Brooks says.
My thumbs graze over his knuckles. I want to be tender with him. I want to be his. “Thanks,” I say, my voice cracking in spite of my efforts to hold in the pain.
“Hey,” he says, the same way he said it when I crashed into his body at the front door. His arms have somehow become such a safe place for me.
I shift in the bed until I face him, and he moves both of his hands, finger-combing my hair from my face, then cradling my cheeks as he runs his thumbs under my exhausted eyes.
“You’re an amazing mom,” he reiterates.
I blink slowly, fighting to keep my eyes open. Staring into his blue is too soothing to stop.
“I’d venture to guess you’re a pretty great wife, too. Today, when I thought . . .” He stops shy of finishing again, but this time, I really want to hear him say it.
“When you thought what?” I prompt.
His mouth tugs up on one side into a guilty but faint smile.
“When I heard your voicemail, all I could think was I needed to get back here to protect my family. My daughter, of course. But also . . . to protect you. And not because you’re my friend.
Because you’re not just my friend, Linds.
You’re not just the nanny. You’re . . .” He sucks in his lips and shakes with a single, silent laugh.
“What am I, Brooks?” My hands crawl up his chest again, grasping at the dry-fit fabric of his post-game shirt. He literally got on a plane immediately after his game and flew home for us. For Holly.
For me.
“You’re mine, Lindsey. You’re fucking mine.”