Chapter 12
TWELVE
He’s protective of the people he cares about.
BAILEY
“Are you sure you want to stay here?” Max asked as he hovered in the doorway with an adorable furrow between his eyebrows. “If you really have to record today, you could use one of the rooms at the medical center.”
It was a sweet offer, but I shook my head. “The light there is all wrong. Your living room is much better.”
I didn’t want to be alone, but it had been two days, and nothing had happened. I was feeling much better, and I couldn’t put off working for any longer.
“Don’t you have those fancy light things so you can make good light happen anywhere?” he asked, clearly as reluctant to leave as I was for him to go.
I couldn’t just start accompanying him to work every day, though, however tempting it might be. I had my own life and responsibilities, and I’d eventually get in the way of him doing his job.
Besides, I wanted him to like having me around, and if I was too clingy, I might overwhelm him.
“Yes, but it’s much better if the ambient lighting is nice. Makeup and artificial lighting can only do so much. I want to look as good as I can because the gossip about what happened is starting to get out of control, and I need to calm everyone.”
He sighed, his mouth twisting unhappily. “Promise you’ll call me if you need me?”
I smiled. “I will.”
“Thank you. And if you change your mind and want to come to the medical center, you’re welcome to walk down, or I can pick you up if I’m not with a patient. I’m sure Grace or Kennedy wouldn’t mind giving you a ride either.”
“I know.”
I didn’t mention that there was no way I was walking there on my own. Physically, I could probably do it, although it would hurt, but I liked having walls around me. It made me feel safer. Out in the open, danger might come from any direction.
I had no idea if the person who’d done this to me was still in Destiny Falls, and I didn’t want to make myself any more vulnerable than necessary.
“Lock the doors,” he said.
“The back door is already locked, and I’ll lock the front one behind you when you leave,” I assured him.
“I’ll wait until I hear it.” He slung his bag over his shoulder and strode to the exit. “I’ll be home for lunch.”
I padded after him and waited while he put on his shoes and stepped through the door, then I turned the lock and tested the handle just to make sure it had worked.
Next, I walked a circuit of the house, checking to make sure the windows were sealed and—to my shame—opening any cupboards large enough for a person to hide in just in case someone had secreted themself away.
No, I didn’t logically think anyone would hide in the linen cupboard, but the fearful little voice in the back of my head needed to be certain.
Once I was sure I was alone, I set up my new phone on a stand in the living room and connected it to a small Bluetooth microphone so my audience could hear me more clearly.
I went to the bathroom and applied a thick layer of makeup to hide the worst of the bruising. It was easier to cover now because the bruises were beginning to turn yellow.
As they disappeared bit by bit, I began to feel more like myself.
The bruises served as a reminder of what had happened to me, and I was only too happy to paint over them. When I finished, the outlines of some of the bruises were still visible if you looked closely, especially on my cheekbones, but overall, it wasn’t too bad.
I poured myself a glass of water and sat in front of my phone, fussing with the settings until everything was just as I wanted it. Then, I tried to hit the button to go live… and stopped. I tried again, but my hand shook, and I missed the button.
Drawing in a deep breath, I closed my eyes and focused on the way the sofa felt under me and the firmness of the floor beneath my feet.
You’re okay, I told myself.
It shouldn’t surprise me that this was difficult. I’d been shut away in either Max’s house or the medical center for three days now, only seeing and speaking with close friends. Of course facing others would be challenging.
But I could do this. My career might depend upon it. If I took too long to start creating content again, my followers would forget about me.
My stomach twisted. Ugh, that kind of pressure didn’t help.
Don’t think about them. Pretend you’re just talking to Summer.
I could do that. In the early days, it had been how I’d stayed sane. Confronting the reality of how many people were listening to my every word was too intimidating, so everything I did was just for Summer.
Summoning a smile, I pushed the button and looked into the camera. “Hi, everyone. I know it’s been a while since I posted anything. Hopefully you’ll forgive me because everything has been crazy.”
I explained the basics of what had happened and called for questions. Most people wanted to know whether I had any long-lasting injuries or if the person who’d done it had been caught.
One viewer asked if I’d be taking a break from posting to recover, and I assured them that I’d keep making content, but that I wouldn’t be doing any gymnastics for a while. Someone else said that hearing what had happened to me only made them more nervous to go solo hiking, and my heart twinged.
I hated that. One of the reasons I’d started incorporating hikes into my content was to make the outdoors more accessible to women who might otherwise be wary of it.
Where are you? a regular viewer asked. That isn’t your usual setup.
I laughed. “No, it isn’t. I’m staying with a handsome doctor.”
Cue a flurry of questions about said doctor and whether we were dating.
Bypassing those, I asked them what they wanted to see from me next, since gymnastics and hiking wouldn’t be possible for at least a couple of weeks, but probably longer. Before I had a chance to start going through the responses, a comment all in caps drew my attention, and my stomach dropped.
WHO’S THAT BEHIND YOU? IS IT THE HANDSOME DOCTOR?
Slowly, I turned, wondering if perhaps Max had forgotten something and had to come home. When I spotted the figure in the window, haloed with sunlight, my muscles locked and something awful unspooled low in my gut.
That wasn’t Max.
Instinctively, I reeled away, almost falling off the edge of the sofa. The figure at the window moved sideways. They were wearing a black ski mask and were in the process of raising their hand.
I screamed and—not wanting to find out what was in his hand—I snatched up the stand with my phone on it and sprinted down the hall.
I lunged into the bathroom, which only had a tiny window—hopefully not big enough for someone to enter through—and locked the door.
With clumsy fingers, I ended the live and called the police.