Chapter 11 Gwen
GWEN
Rhiannon had a key. If it took me too long to answer the door when she inevitably came knocking, there was a good chance she would use it.
We wouldn’t have enough time to get Simone in my closet or under the bed before she made it inside.
Rhiannon would see Simone’s face, freak the hell out, and a few things could happen from there.
The worst of them would be her finding out about the murder.
Not much better would be Simone getting kicked out of the ranch for endangering it.
Our best bet was keeping Rhiannon from seeing Simone until her face healed. That meant either I slept on the couch, or we shared the bed.
My back was killing me. I wasn’t taking the couch. Nor was I going to make my best friend sleep on the floor when her face looked like a human punching bag.
Sharing a bed for the night wouldn’t kill us.
Getting comfortable was a bit inconvenient, given the fact that neither of us were extraordinarily small women. My chunky dog who always slept where Simone now lay wasn’t happy about the arrangement either.
But the stress and chaos of the day, paired with the fact that I’d hardly slept in nearly forty-eight hours, made falling asleep a simple task. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out cold.
To my surprise, a dreamless sleep followed. Considering the nightmare I’d had the night before, tacked onto the nightmare I’d lived through afterward, I expected to have one tonight. Then again, I had responded to violence with violence. Not only had I survived, but I’d championed my opponent.
Was that to say that I was proud of what I’d done? Not exactly.
Simone was at risk. The entire ranch was at risk. My freedom was at risk.
But that was my only regret. The possibility of losing the freedom we’d left our lives behind for.
I’d experienced a host of trauma in my life.
Troy’s relentless psychological and physical abuse had lasted through most of my adolescence and adult life until the last year.
The sexual assault I had endured from a boyfriend I’d had before Troy.
The drug and alcohol abuse I’d seen growing up, living in poverty—those had kept me up at night.
But Killing David? That didn’t.
While I wasn’t proud of what I’d done, I wasn’t ashamed of it either. It’d been self-defense. If I hadn’t killed him, he may have killed me. Simone too. Soon after, his daughter could’ve been on the chopping block.
No, it wasn’t pride. It was relief.
I was relieved he couldn’t hurt anyone else, that justice had been served.
Because of that, I slept like a baby all through the night. Only to be awoken from a tap on my cheek.
Tilting back, I blinked hard. For a heartbeat, only a heartbeat, I didn’t recognize the person beside me. Her left eye was still swollen shut. Those thick lips were still twice their normal size. But her smile was the same as it’d always been, reminding me of where I was and why she was here.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Simone said. “Did you know you snore?”
Yawning, I rubbed the crust from my eyes. “I also talk in my sleep.”
“Yeah, you said something about stars and ladybugs.” She reached past me to the side table, coming back with a big silver tray with a plate.
Steam floated from the hot waffles, scrambled eggs, and mug of coffee at the corner.
“Your alarm went off an hour ago, but I turned it off for you since you don’t have work today. ”
Perplexed, I stifled another yawn and sat forward. “And made me breakfast in bed?”
“Well, I made breakfast, and you were in bed, so I figured why not.”
I situated the tray on my lap, avoiding Honey at my side, sniffing away. “Is it our anniversary or something?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I don’t think there’s a way to interpret anything that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours as not weird.”
“Which is why I made you breakfast in bed.” She snatched a blueberry from the fruit bowl on the edge of the tray.
“You saved my life. You very well may have saved the ranch. You offered to take care of my kid, went out of your way to help me make sure Rhiannon doesn’t find out about any of this, and you got rid of the guy who has made my life a living hell since I was sixteen years old.
I owe you one.” She gestured to the tray in my lap.
“I figured I could start with breakfast.”
“If this is the treatment I get for killing abusive husbands”—I bit into my waffle —“maybe I should do it more often.”
“Open an agency.” She lifted her hands in the air, as if gesturing to a sign in neon lights. “Assassin Guinevere: husband hit you? Call now to get a free quote for his murder.”
I snorted.
She laughed.
“In all seriousness,” I said, “you don’t owe me anything. If the roles were reversed, you would’ve done the same for me.”
“I like to think I would, but I don’t really know.” Frowning, she raised her shoulders. “That last time before I left David was the first time I’d ever hit him back. My trauma response isn’t fight. Most of the time, it’s freeze. Just like I did the other night.”
The first few times I’d frozen, as well. Eventually, I developed the flight response. I ran from my ex if he threatened to escalate violence. The fight response came further down the line.
“I just—I’ll never tell anyone, Gwen. I’m a little ashamed to admit how grateful I am. And embarrassed. I had a knife in my pocket, but I didn’t grab it. I should have. I shouldn’t have let him do this to me again. I should’ve fought back.”
“It doesn’t matter now, does it?” Sipping my coffee, I stroked Honey’s head. She eyed my plate. “All that matters now is getting through the next week or so. Once your face heals up, we move the hell on from this.”
“Yeah, I know.” Biting her lip, she shook her head. “And we will. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have questions.”
“Like?”
“Like, are you sure he was dead?”
“Hundred and ten percent.”
“But how can you know? What the hell happened anyway?”
A sigh escaped my nostrils. “Plausible deniability, Simone.”
“I slept in your bed last night to keep anyone from seeing my face,” she said. “I’m already an accomplice. All night, I just kept imagining him rising from a shallow grave with an arrow through his chest, coming back here, and slitting my throat.”
Guilt pinched my chest. “I didn’t get him with an arrow.”
I understood why she would’ve thought that though. Part of our self-defense course included becoming proficient with a weapon. Rhiannon said it was about building confidence. Guns weren’t allowed on the ranch, so I’d chosen a bow. Figured it’d work against a coyote if one ever charged me and Honey.
Simone stared me down, her good eye watering. “What was it then?”
If it would help her sleep better at night, fine. “He got in my face when I told him to leave. He shoved me, I shoved him, and at some point, fists started flying. His hand was around my throat, and I had a knife in my pocket, so I stabbed him.”
Brows raising, she cocked her head to the side. “Like, once? That’s all it took?”
“Definitely more than once.”
“Damn,” she murmured. “What was going through your head?”
“‘Shit. Shit, shit, shit.’” I nibbled my waffle. “‘What the hell did I just do?’”
“No, I mean, before you did it. While you did it. Did instinct just kick in, or was it something else?”
“I didn’t think about doing it before I did, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Not really.”
“Then what?”
“Like, were you afraid for your life, and you couldn’t break free, so you just—”
“No.” Shaking my head, I slid the platter from my lap onto the bed. Honey rushed toward it, ready to devour the whole plate. With a grunt, I grabbed it and set it on the nightstand. Honey whined and laid her head back down on her paws. “Nope. I’m not doing this.”
“You’re not doing what?”
I stepped to the hardwoods and grabbed my robe off the hook on the wall. After I tossed it over my shoulders, I grabbed the platter. “You know what.”
“I literally don’t.”
Already halfway down the hall, I only shook my head. “I don’t need you to do the psychotherapy shit on me, Simone. I’m fine.”
“I wasn’t trying to do any psycho—”
“That’s a crock of shit.” Setting it down on the table, I met her gaze in the hallway. “You want me to talk about my feelings, how it affected me, how I endured another trauma, and I don’t need to do that. I’m fine.”
“You killed a man yesterday, and you expect me to believe you’re just fine?” She propped her hands on her round hips. “That’s the crock of shit, Gwen. We both know some heavy shit was going through your brain when you did that, and that’s exactly why you don’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it because I’m not the victim here. I’m fine.” My voice was steady, if not a bit annoyed. “I’m better than fine.”
Simone’s expression twitched to something like amusement. She crossed her arms against her chest. “You’re better than fine?”
“I am. I feel great. I got a full night’s sleep, a waffle in bed, and I know that bastard is not out there in the world anymore.
He’s not going to hurt anyone else. He’s not going to come back for you, or for Junie, or for the ranch to get us all thrown into prison.
I slept like a baby knowing the world’s a better place without him in it. ”
“I’m sure you slept like a baby after Troy nearly killed you too,” she said. “Because when the brain can’t process trauma, it shuts down. It lets you fall into a deep sleep where you can pretend that it didn’t happen.”
“Out there, I am pretending it didn’t happen. Because I have to.” I pointed at the door. “But I just told you I’m not ashamed of it. That I slept like a baby, that I feel—”
“Fine, I know.” Simone raised her hands in surrender. “Just like you told yourself you were fine after your husband nearly killed you.”
“What does Troy have to do with this?”