Chapter Four #2
“Looks all right.” Pulling open the door, he steps onto the stoop, scanning the backyard.
I follow, pausing in the doorway. Scattered and stressed, my brain feels pulled in too many directions.
I’m going to make a mistake. The house is quiet, but my brain is impossibly loud.
Chaotic. There are thoughts, too many, moving through my mind so rapidly I only catch glimpses of them as they streak by.
I have to get it together; I can’t get it together.
Caine’s watching me. I wonder if I look as out of control as I feel.
Setting Gremlin down, I turn to Caine. My lips stick to my teeth when I smile, mouth uncomfortably dry.
“Could you please keep an eye on her? I need to use the restroom.”
He nods. “Are you ok—”
“Great,” I lie. “Be right back.” Scurrying to the guest bathroom beneath the stairs, I shut the door behind me. Resting my hands on the edge of the sink, I take deep breaths, one after another, until the words flying through my brain slow down long enough for me to understand them.
He isn’t done.
He will never be done.
This is what you get.
Violence brings more violence.
Maybe it was better when I couldn’t make out the words.
Turning on the cool tap, I splash water on my face, realizing as I do, I’m not wearing makeup.
There are maybe five days per month where my skin doesn’t act as if every hormone in my body personally offends it.
Today isn’t one of those days, and tomorrow probably won’t be either.
A scattering of acne lurks on both sides of my jaw, and there are a few stray spots on my forehead.
Lovely.
On my list of problems, it’s beyond minor, but it’s also a gumdrop right on top of the candy mountain of things that have gone wrong tonight.
A full face of makeup might as well be armor, ensuring that even if I feel like I’m out of control inside, on the outside I seem together enough to wrangle concealer and a tube of mascara.
Dabbing my face with a hand towel, I try to figure out my next move.
I don’t want to call the police, but I don’t know what else to do.
The last time I got away from Nicholas was pure luck, uncovering fraud that sent him to prison, but I don’t have a laptop full of evidence this time.
A paper trail that he’s harassing me will cover my ass, make it easier to claim self-defense when…
Do you hear yourself?
That’s premeditation.
What is wrong with you?
Guilt tries to creep in; I shut the door in its face.
That’s a problem for future me. Right now me needs to figure out the current disaster.
Exiting the bathroom, I look for Caine. He isn’t in the backyard with Gremlin.
Or in the kitchen. Or living room—though the snake is still in the tub.
I check the rest of the downstairs, the other bathroom, and the spare room that serves as a gym, but there’s no Caine or Gremlin.
The calm I collected is slipping away, even as I grip it tighter and tighter.
Visions of Caine and Gremlin injured—dead—bang at the doors of my brain.
Nicholas would hurt them if he thought it would hurt me—
Breathe.
I almost call out for Caine as I climb the stairs but stop myself.
I might need the element of surprise. Carefully, I slink across the landing, toward the first bedroom on the right, its door slightly ajar.
The gentle click-swoosh of the primary bedroom door opening behind me makes me whirl, the hours of jiujitsu practice I’ve put in since moving to Maine the reason I shift into a defensive stance, hands snapping up to protect me from—
Caine.
Standing in the doorway of Claire and Shane’s room, he looks a little surprised at my reaction.
Gremlin, who’s cradled to his torso in one big, tattooed hand, doesn’t.
She even sighs, as if saying, Do you see what I put up with?
I never thought I’d be jealous of a Yorkie, let alone one with a bad attitude and a thimble-sized bladder, but right now I am.
I want to be held while someone else deals with the mess.
Grow up.
Lowering my hands, I don’t bother trying to force a smile. Moving my facial muscles seems like an exorbitant use of energy. “Sorry. Thought you were…” I gesture vaguely. “What were you doing in there?”
“Making sure it’s just us.” Caine steps into the doorway, shutting the bedroom door behind him. “That was the last room.”
“What do you mean?” My saliva feels thick, the memory of Nicholas’s breath on my cheek too close. Reaching for Gremlin, I’m offended that she seems disgruntled to be moved from Caine’s hold. When she finally nuzzles into the crook of my arm, I feel better-ish.
“The back door was unlocked—that’s how I came in.” Rubbing the back of his neck, he chuckles grimly. “I thought you got my text and left it unlocked for me, but I’m starting to think that wasn’t the case.”
“I locked it.” Fear’s claws are unsheathed, sunk into my lungs, puncturing them in so many places that I’m surprised I don’t hiss like a leaky balloon when I speak. “I know I locked it, I swear. I wouldn’t forget—”
“Easy, killer, I know.” He scoffs. “If there’s one person I trust to know whether they locked a door or not, it’s you. I’d bet my life on your little type A ass.”
The tension thrumming through me lessens at his teasing.
Barely, but it helps. It nudges me back toward the composed version of me that Caine knows, not this cornered creature I’ve become at the slightest possibility of my ex-husband’s return.
“Oh. Thank you.” Clearing my throat, I add, “You really already checked all the rooms?”
“Every one.” He moves toward the stairs.
Wait, wasn’t he wearing lighter-washed jeans?
Before I can figure out the mystery, Caine speaks again. “Shane must have pissed someone off. This has to be a threat. No way it’s for Claire. Keith’s weird, but he’s not rattlesnake-with-a-bow-on-it weird.”
Oh boy.
It’s a threat all right, but not for Shane, and definitely not left by Claire’s ex-husband.
For a split second, a teeny-tiny part of me considers not telling Caine that I know the snake is for me, that it’s a warning, my ex-husband’s favorite method of psychological warfare.
Even as I think it, I realize that I can’t do that.
If I’m the focus of Nicholas’s attention again, there’s a chance that people around me could be at risk.
Caine continues to chatter, speculating on rival firms that might have done it.
I’m halfway listening, nodding along, until he hits a stopping point.
We’re walking down the stairs now. He takes a breath.
I blurt, “It’s for me.” Caine freezes. That we’ve stopped in the space between the first and second floors is perfectly symbolic, because I’m caught between the version of me that Caine—and everyone else—knows, and the one that’s actually three overwhelmed possums in a trench coat.
Prepare to meet Stressy, Messy, and Depressy.
Yippee.
If I had things my way, the only person in Maine who would know about Nicholas is Jeremy, my “fiancé” for the past few years. Giving him a heads-up that I’d sent my ex-husband to prison seemed like the polite thing to do.
“Explain,” Caine says, voice low and serious. Fuck. I’d rather fling myself down the stairs. This version of me is not one I want Caine to meet.
As an adult, coolness shouldn’t be a thing, but Caine is exceptionally cool, possessing an easygoing, has-a-joke-for-everything, completely unbothered attitude and charm that’s wildly unfair.
Add the fact that he’s absurdly good-looking, and it’s a miracle I can string a sentence together around him.
While we’ve worked together at the haunt enough for him to know that I am both easily bothered and charmless, I’d still rather not flaunt how much of a shit show my life was—and is.
“I will.” It comes out snappier than I intend. “But not on the stairs.”
With a flourish, he motions for me to proceed to the living room. I do, wondering if I should apologize for being snippy or for stunning him.
Give it five minutes. You’re going to have to apologize for spilling your life’s story to him soon enough.
Back downstairs, War is agitated, and I feel bad. It’s not her fault she’s here. She’s a pawn in an asshole’s scheme, and her life is shittier because of it.
I need to call animal control.
Maybe a reptile specialist.
I’m uncertain about involving the police after they were wholly unhelpful in Texas, but I’m sure Caine will expect me to call.
While I don’t know much Underwood family history, I’m fairly certain their father, Joel, was a cop.
Turning toward Caine, I find him crouched beside the front door, inspecting what looks like an envelope.
He looks up at me. “Margot Ammon?”