Chapter Eighteen
Elle moved closer, telling herself she was seeing things.
God, she hoped she was seeing things.
Her heart hammered hard in her chest, drying out her throat as she stared at a picture of a young Jeremy with his father in uniform, then her gaze drifted to the article with a photo of the same man next to her brother’s photo.
Oh, God…his father was Daniel Mercer, but as she read the article, it became clear that her mother had gotten the names wrong. It hadn’t been Officer Martin who’d tried to save Patrick, it was Officer Mercer.
This meant Jeremy’s father had lost his life trying to save her brother.
With her gaze blurring and legs about to give out, she sank down into the nearest chair.
How could this be?
What were the chances?
What did it mean for her and Jeremy?
He’s going to hate me…
She closed her eyes, and tears streamed down her face. It was surreal. It wasn’t fair. Things like this only happened in her books.
But it was real.
And it sucked.
Elle tried to inhale, but her tight chest wouldn’t allow a deep breath. She took a few short ones and talked herself out of being sick.
It was no time to panic or fall apart. She needed to think. What should she do?
The world would eventually know about her brother and the special man who’d sacrificed his life for him, and that he was the reason she created the series. It was all in her dedication. Of course, she’d have to revise it to name the correct officer.
That was months off, though. Her release date was set to coincide with the twenty-fifth anniversary of her brother’s death…and Officer Mercer’s, too.
Elle had some time before the book would be published in November. She was blessed to have a great editing team as well as a lenient publisher. Normally, finished works were handed in a good year in advance of release dates.
The dedication was easy to fix.
But what about things with Jeremy?
Her chest tightened again. She honestly had no idea how he would take the news. Elle only knew she had to tell him. And soon.
The sound of a car door slamming had her heart lurching.
But not this soon.
Dammit. She should’ve left.
Maybe it was just a solicitor or something. She waited, barely breathing, hoping to hear a knock but heard the front door opening, instead.
“Elle? Where are you?” Jeremy called out.
She opened her mouth but nothing happened, so she swallowed and tried again. “Den.”
“I’m glad you’re still here. I felt bad about my meager breakfast fixings,” he said, striding into the room, carrying a white bag.
“So I grabbed you a cinnamon bun when I stopped for my…Elle?” Frowning, he dropped the bag on an end table, then rushed over to squat in front of her and gently grasped her hand. “What’s wrong?”
Only everything.
She hiccupped then shook her head as her stupid throat heated again.
“Was someone here? Did they hurt you?” he asked, glancing around frantically.
She squeezed his hand, and when his gaze returned to hers, she shook her head again. “No. It’s just…life.”
She chickened out. Idiot.
And that explanation wasn’t true. Her life the past several weeks had been wonderful.
His frown deepened. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”
Good lead in. She needed to take it, but God, she didn’t want to.
He deserved to know.
With that in mind, Elle straightened her spine and lifted her free hand to point to the article on the wall.
After turning for a quick glance at it, Jeremy faced her, his gaze soft. “My dad. I told you about him.”
Not exactly. She’d known he’d died in the line of duty, but not how or where. She’d foolishly assumed he’d been shot somewhere in Pennsylvania.
Served her right for assuming, and for not having her facts straight.
“Not that,” she said, her voice hoarse. Once again, Elle cleared her throat, then tugged free from his hold, suddenly too restless to sit. “I meant the boy,” she forced out, pushing to her feet to walk over and stare at Patrick’s smiling face.
That had been his new school picture, taken the September prior to the accident.
She remembered her mother insisting he wear a nice button-down shirt for his first picture in middle school.
Patrick had wanted to wear a T-shirt to be a cool sixth grader.
Elle eyed the black T-shirt he wore underneath an open white button-down shirt with thin black stripes, and smiled.
Her mother hadn’t been too pleased to find he’d unbuttoned his shirt for the photo, but Elle thought it was a good compromise.
Who knew he’d be gone two months later?
“Patrick Murphy? Yeah, it was sad,” he said quietly next to her, looking at the article. “Several people died that day.”
Blinking back more tears, she turned to him and nodded, then had to force out the words, “I know.”
His brows crashed together. “What do you mean?”
Moment of truth.
Just say it.
“Patrick was my brother.”
Jeremy’s eyes widened before a deeper frown returned. “You said you didn’t have any siblings.”
“I don’t. Not anymore.”
“It’s not the same, Elle.”
“True. It hasn’t been the same since he died,” she said, her gaze back on her brother’s photo, tears sliding down her face.
A strangled noise rumbled in Jeremy’s chest as he pulled her in close, and she slid her arms around him and held tight. “I’m so sorry, Elle,” he said after several minutes. “You’ve lost so much.”
The tears started to fall faster then, but she drew back slightly to meet his concerned gaze. “You’re not mad at me?”
“Mad?” His brows crashed together again. “God, Elle, no. Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“Because it was my brother’s fault that your dad died.”
There, she said it. She’d put it out there. Got it off her chest.
He sucked in a breath and cupped her shoulders. “Look at me, Elle.”
She stared at his throat, too afraid to see contempt in his eyes.
“Elle…look at me.”
Despite not wanting to, she found herself obeying, and the tightness in her chest eased at his warm, compassionate gaze.
“It was just an accident,” he said. “A horrible one, but still an accident. My dad died doing his job. One that he loved. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
Deep down, Elle knew this, but she’d carried the guilt long before she ever met Jeremy and Jenna. Long before coming to the Poconos.
“Promise me you’ll get that thought out of your head,” he said, leaning in to kiss her forehead.
She nodded but didn’t reply, because that promise was going to take a lot of time to deliver.
“I’m guessing this is the reason behind you wanting to honor the police through your series,” he said, nodding toward the article.
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes,” she replied again.
“Why didn’t you tell me? I mean, I know I was an ass last year, but why keep this a secret?”
Okay, so that was a lot to unpack.
She moved out of his arms and stepped toward the front window, trying to form her words. “It wasn’t a secret. It’s just not something I talk about with people.”
“I see,” he said, and something in his tone had her turning to face him. “I’d like to think I’m more than just ‘people’ to you.”
“You are.”
He shrugged, and she watch some of the warmth leave his gaze. “Obviously, not.”
“That’s not true.” Her gut twisted, hating that she’d hurt him. “It’s hard for me to talk about Patrick and my past. And it might not be a good idea because…” She let her voice trail off. Elle doubted the cop in him would understand her irrational fear or any talk about a curse.
“Because of what, Elle?” he asked, his gaze emotionless now. When she didn’t answer, he hooked his thumbs behind his vest and cocked his head. “Can you at least tell me why you and your brother have a different last name? Did you have different fathers?”
She shook her head, and braced herself, knowing he wasn’t going to be pleased with her answer. “Murphy is my maiden name.”
He stiffened and his arms fell to his side. “Jesus, Elle. You’re married?”
“No! Not anymore,” she rushed to say and even stepped toward him, but he moved away.
“Callum and I have been divorced over a decade now.” Pain sliced through her chest at his cold shoulder, but she knew keeping her past from him hadn’t helped.
“Did you really think I’d mess around with someone if I was married? ”
God, was his opinion of her that low?
“Hard to say, since I clearly don’t know you as well as I thought,” he said, lips twisting into a scowl. “Considering you’re writing a series to honor my father for trying to save your brother but didn’t bring it up once in the year we’ve known each other.”
She closed her eyes and exhaled before opening them again.
“I didn’t know your father was that Officer Mercer.
Besides, my mother told me it was Officer Martin who’d tried to save Patrick, then she forbade me to bring it up.
I was seven, Jeremy. I took my mother’s words as gospel and obeyed her.
It wasn’t until I saw this article that I discovered the truth.
So I pretty much found out right before you. ”
He blew out a breath and shoved a hand through his hair before he nodded. “Sorry,” he said, and the knot in her stomach loosened a little but not a lot, because his gaze was still closed off.
She tried to think of something to say to break the tension, but her gift for words abandoned her, proving absolutely useless in real life. Suddenly too exhausted to stand, Elle leaned her hip against the desk, at a loss as to what to do next.
Maybe she wasn’t supposed to do anything. Maybe this was fate’s sign that it was time to cut and run…or pay the consequences.
“Are there any other secrets you’ve kept from me, other than a brother and husband?” he asked, right before his radio went off.
Elle jumped then set a hand over her aching heart to steady it, while he talked to dispatch.
His brow furrowed in concentration as he absorbed the information, and she knew that despite his calm exterior, a sense of readiness hummed beneath the surface, implying his willingness to spring into action at a moment's notice. She admired that about him.
That and many other things. But it was probably all moot now.
As the dispatcher concluded the transmission, Jeremy responded clearly, acknowledging receipt of the call.
Then his attention returned to her. “I have to go.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“We’ll talk about this later,” he said before he turned and rushed out of the room and then the house, without waiting for her reply.
Elle had no idea when “later” was…or for that matter, if she’d still be in Pennsylvania.