Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
D ella gaped as Ward pulled to a stop in the driveway of a two-story farmhouse-style fantasy on a quiet tree-lined street. The setting sun painted everything with gold, and fall dotted the lawn with brilliant red leaves. Lizzie would love this place. “You can’t be serious.”
“About?”
She looked back at him. “This is where we’re staying?”
“Yes.” He turned off the engine.
“No way. This”—she waved a hand at the picture-perfect setting—“is some kind of deeply twisted, elaborate tease. The second I get out of this truck you’re going to tell me I’m staying in an outhouse out back or something.”
“No outhouse. But there is a woodshed.”
Did his lips quirk up? She was pretty sure they did.
For some absurd reason, it warmed her a little. “You’re making fun of me.”
“No.” He jiggled the keys in his hand until he found one that looked like a house key. “We’re here. This is it.”
“This can’t be where you grew up. It looks like it’s been Photoshopped.” She pointed at the house. “Who lives in a house like that? Nobody.”
“Me. My parents. My grandparents.” He got out.
She opened her door and climbed out in slow motion. Perfectly trimmed hedges and pink and red rose bushes edged a covered front porch that gave her a come-hither vibe. Rocking chairs waited for her to sit and stay awhile. They somehow managed to soothe her frayed nerves just by existing.
The whole effect was charming and cozy and entirely out of place when she considered what she knew of Donovan Ward. There was no way that man would ever unwind enough for a place like this. “No way you grew up here. In that.”
“Yes, way. Hey, I had a childhood like everybody else.” He pulled their bags from behind the seat and shut the door. “Well, maybe not everybody.”
She stared around, completely dumbfounded. “But this is so…so…perfect.”
“It’ll do. Come on in.” He climbed the steps to the front door with both of their bags slung over one shoulder.
She followed. “Is your family going to mind me being here?”
“No.” He opened the door and waited for her to pass by, then shut the door behind her. “They live down by the square.”
“I thought this was your family home?”
“It is. It’s also my house. I own it. I stay here when I’m in town.”
“By yourself? Your dad moved out? Why? Why would anyone leave this house?”
“It was rough for him, after Mom died. Besides, he likes living closer to work.” He started up the stairs. “Room’s this way.”
“I want to take look around down here first.” She gave him an innocent smile. “Get to know my new cage."
He hesitated, then kept going. “Suit yourself. Stay inside.”
She moved into the living room just off the entry, immediately captivated by the enormous fireplace on the far wall. It was made of river rocks, with a wood mantle perfect for hanging Christmas stockings, and surrounded by floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
A large oil painting above the mantle caught her attention.
It showed a courtyard at night with fairy lights hanging from the trees and a wall covered in ivy. A couple snuggled together on a bench. Their blurred faces made them anonymous, but it was obvious they were in love. The overall effect was dreamy magic. The initials SRW were worked into the lower left corner.
Mattie would love it. On impulse, Della reached for her phone to take a picture of it, then remembered it wasn’t really her phone, and she wasn’t allowed to text anyone.
She put the phone down on a nearby table and continued poking around her warden’s childhood home. It felt vaguely naughty, like spying, but Piper had always said a person’s home said a lot about them. Maybe she’d figure out what made her warden so crabby.
Books of every genre lined the shelves next to the fireplace, including an entire shelf of young adult fantasy, and another of mystery thrillers. Here and there, simple silver frames showcased the people she assumed lived in this house, once upon a time.
One showed a tall man with Ward’s hair and build gazing at a woman with kind eyes—she assumed Mama Ward—with such intensity and open admiration that Della couldn’t help but smile.
His parents’ love for each was too big for the small frame.
Della had seen Renic look at Lizzie that way. It sent a ping of jealousy zipping through Della every time.
Nobody had ever looked at her like that.
She wondered when his mother had died. How old had he been? She studied the woman in the frame, curious and a little sad. Ward had his mother’s lips. She wondered if he’d inherited her warm, inviting smile too. She wouldn’t know. She’d never seen him smile.
It was weird that her warden had been part of such an obviously close family. So far, he’d seemed more like someone who'd sprung fully formed from a robot factory.
She moved on to a photo of young Ward caught in the act of throwing a football.
“All-American boy. Huh.” She trailed her fingers along one of the shelves to another photo of three boys in dirty football uniforms sitting on the hood of a car. She could just make out a scoreboard in the background with forty-two on one side, seven on the other.
As it turned out, her warden did have his mother’s smile. He looked so happy she couldn’t help but wonder where that smile had gone. Then she remembered his mother was dead and knew the answer.
Overhead, the floorboards creaked as her keeper moved from room to room upstairs.
It was so quiet. There were no human noises. No laughter. No TV show playing in the background. No music. Just the distant rush of the stream outside.
There was no feeling of life in a place that had clearly been lived in.
The whole place had that empty feeling of an arena before a show, but without the anticipation.
All this silence made her ears buzz.
Ward tromped down the stairs, his full attention on his phone. Whatever he saw on the screen wasn’t making him very happy.
Nervous tingles tickled her stomach. “Something wrong? Is there news about the stalker?”
“No.” Ward tapped out a short message, then glanced up. “What are you doing?”
The brusque, judgmental way he said that, as if he knew she’d been doing something wrong, flipped the switch on her last nerve.
“You know, the last few days have been pretty shitty. My house was invaded, there’s a man in the hospital and it’s my fault. I think I’ve handled it all pretty damn well, and I just…I need a few seconds of normal. Can you handle that? Can you relax for five seconds? Maybe pretend to be human?” She brushed past him to investigate the kitchen. “Is there anything to drink in here?”
She heard him take a deep breath like he was summoning his patience.
“I’m not sure,” he muttered.
“What do you mean you’re not sure?”
The kitchen was large, but not massive, with a mahogany island in the center that looked hand carved, and four matching barstools. There was a frosted glass door with the word Pantry stenciled on it in white on the right, and next to that a door that led to what appeared to be an office.
Della checked the fridge. It was empty. She opened and closed the cabinets.
Empty.
She checked the pantry. Cleaning supplies huddled together in the corner, surrounded by empty shelves.
“When you say you live here, what do you mean by that? I mean, you do eat, right? You don’t just plug in at night?”
“It’s been a while.” Ward strode past her. “I’m going to get set up in the office. Make yourself at home, but stay inside. Please.”
“This is hell, isn’t it.” Della slid onto one of the barstools, dejected and exhausted. “There’s no food so it must be hell.”
“We ate on the plane.” Ward’s stomach made a low grumbling noise.
“Aha!” She pointed an accusing finger at him. “You’re hungry too. Admit it.”
The expression on his face twisted through frustration and annoyance before settling on acceptance. “Fine. I’ll head out for supplies first. What would you like me to pick up?”
Della blinked. The question was simple, startlingly domestic, and almost kind.
It was way out of character for her warden.
She started to ask for her usual smoothie ingredients, then paused. It had been a hell of a month.
She wanted comfort food.
“I want the biggest bag of Cheetos you can find. The plain kind, not the weird flavor kinds.” She held out her hands to indicate the size she wanted. “Family size. Jumbo. Whatever.”
“That’s not food.” Ward paced back to the front door, his keys jingling.
“Look, Donovan .” She followed, stopping long enough to toe off her shoes. “You’ve ripped me away from my family and my life, you’ve changed my hair and my name, and you’ve dumped me in the middle of Nowheresville, Pennsylvania. I’m not even allowed to do the one thing that makes me feel like me. I want. Some. Damn. Cheetos.”
He grunted as he stepped onto the porch, then turned back, maybe to argue.
“And Dr. Pepper. With ice.” She shut the door in his face, then leaned her forehead against it.
A loud knock on the window next to the door made her heart jump.
“Lock the door.” Ward’s command wasn’t muffled at all by the glass between them.
She stuck her tongue out at him, then turned the lock.
“You stay in this house with the doors and windows locked. Don’t open for anybody.” Footsteps clomped down the front porch steps and faded into the distance.
Bored, Della wandered upstairs.
Ward had claimed the first bedroom she came to, the one closest to the stairs. At first, she thought it might have been to keep her from sneaking out.
Then she realized he’d picked it because it was his.
The room was filled with sports memorabilia. Trophies lined a shelf along one wall, a jersey with the number seven on it was pinned to another wall, and a large poster near the window featured a list of games with scores highlighted for each.
A big yellow and blue lightning bolt with the word Boltz split the wall above the bed. In the middle of the bolt, the word Storm had been stenciled, along with the number seven.
He was a high school quarterback, according to a poster that listed all the team members.
She couldn’t resist peeking in his drawers. She had a burning curiosity to find out what kind of underwear he wore.
Shame they were all empty.
She was tempted to take a peek inside his duffel bag, but stopped herself. It felt like crossing a line, somehow. Teenage Ward was fair game. Adult Ward didn’t deserve to know she was curious.
The closet contained baseball bats and gloves, several footballs, and a battered folding chair.
The Ward she knew had started here, in this room.
She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that, so after a quick glimpse at the attached bathroom, she moved on to the bedroom across the hall. This one didn’t have a bed or an attached bathroom. There was a carved wood table along one wall filled with pottery jars and paint supplies. An easel stood near the window with a half-finished painting of the stream outside. It was as if the artist had been interrupted and never came back. A layer of dust covered everything. It was the only room that didn’t appear to have been cleaned.
She didn’t have to look for a signature to know who the artist was. The brilliant colors and dreamy style were the same as the painting downstairs.
Ward’s mother was the painter.
The idea that her last work had been sitting here unfinished all this time tugged at the tiny broken pieces that she’d buried deep in her heart. The ones she never mentioned to anyone. Ever.
Dejected, she passed another bathroom, another small bedroom, and then ended at a large suite at the end of the hall, farthest from the stairs. Her bag waited for her on the bed.
It was clearly the primary bedroom. It had a large attached bathroom with a clawfoot tub and walk-in shower. The closet was empty, but the bed was made with a blue patchwork quilt, and the nightstands featured wood lamps carved with ivy.
This had to be his parents’ room when he was growing up. She was a little surprised he’d put her here and not in a guest room—or in a closet.
It was actually really nice of him.
No. Most likely, he’d put her back here to keep her out of the way. That made more sense.
She went back downstairs, wandering through all the rooms: Formal dining. Living room. Kitchen. Office.
The covered back porch featured chairs that would have been cozy if all the cushions hadn’t been removed. It overlooked a lawn big enough for a pool, but it was just grass, a pile of wood next to a chopping block, and a brick patio that contained a barbecue setup big enough to feed a crowd.
Her mouth watered as she looked at it. "How long does it take to pick up groceries?”
As if in answer to her question, lights streamed through the front windows.
She hurried to the front door and opened it with anticipation of a man carrying grocery bags. “About time, I’m starving!”
Two surprised women carrying large platters covered with pink plastic wrap blinked back at her. One was a petite pep squad brunette with an uncertain smile and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. The other was prom-queen blonde, a color not too far from Della’s usual shade before she became a redhead, with a full face of makeup and a tray of brownies.
“Oh shit,” Della blurted.
The blonde gaped at her.
The brunette glanced at her friend, then back at Della. Her expression froze somewhere between shock and complete panic.
Had they recognized her? Was that why they stared at her like that?
“Uh…hi.” Della’s heartbeat kicked up a notch.
She shouldn’t have opened the door. She should have pretended nobody was home.
The lights were on, though. Obviously, someone was here.
Ward’s words echoed through her head. You stay in this house with the doors and windows locked.
He was going to kill her.
She had to get a grip. They were just neighbors, not stalkers. They were friendly neighbors with plates of cookies. Stalkers didn’t bring cookies. Did they?
She had a feeling the answer wouldn’t matter to Ward.
The awkward pause while Della scrambled to figure out what to do was turning into an uncomfortable, sweaty silence. She could handle this. She was used to interacting with strangers. She put on her best greet-the-fans smile. “Can I, um, help you?”
The blonde straightened her shoulders in an obvious effort to regain her own composure, then a broad crocodile smile lifted her cheeks. “Hi. I’m Rachel Parry.”
She announced herself like she expected applause.
Della relaxed a little. Rachel thought Della should know who she was, not the other way around.
“Well, hello, Rachel Parry. Are those for sale? They look great.” Della eyed the platter of cookies with interest. Maybe she was the local charity bake sale organizer? Or a church rep?
“For sale?” Rachel’s voice came out strangled.
The woman next to her made a high-pitched squeak.
Rachel cleared her throat, and her smile grew sharp around the edges. “ We saw Donovan drive through town earlier and thought he must be headed to the house.”
The way she said Donovan tickled Della’s interest. It was intimate, and possessive. She’d bet anything Ward and Rachel had dated at some point.
“Oh. Wow. That’s, uh, nice.” She wasn’t sure what else she was supposed to say. The woman must have eagle eyes to see into a truck going above the speed limit at sunset.
Talk about a radar. Well, well, well. Wasn’t this interesting?
“Anyway,” Rachel continued in a loftier, devil-may-care tone, “we knew there wasn’t any food in the house, so we thought we’d drop by with a little welcome home present. Is he here?”
Rachel craned her neck as if trying to see past Della.
Della wasn’t used to someone looking past her like that. It was an odd feeling. She was used to being the center of attention, not the one in the way.
It didn’t feel great, she had to admit.
Somewhere, Piper was laughing her ass off and didn’t know why.
“Sorry, no.” An evil impulse seized her. “ Donny ’ s at the store. I’ll be sure to tell him you stopped by though. Rachel, right? And…” Della turned her attention to the smaller woman.
“Oh,” the brunette glanced at Rachel, “I’m Gretchen. We?—”
“We’re school friends of… Donny ,” Rachel interrupted. “Funny, he used to hate being called that.” Her words were laced with too much honey. Della knew that tone. Her sister used it on handsy roadies from time to time. “You don’t mind if we wait for him, do you? It’s been so long since we’ve seen him.”
Rachel brushed past Della with her tray of brownies and her attitude. She continued down the hallway like she knew the place. Intimately.
“I guess not,” Della told her retreating back.
Gretchen hesitated, giving Della a rueful look. “Do you mind if we drop these in the kitchen?”
“Would it matter if I did?” Della grinned at her to soften the words. Whoever these two were, she was absolutely certain they weren’t stalking her. Ward maybe, but not her. “I’m sure Donny would hate it if he missed seeing his friends. Come on in.”
Gretchen flashed an apologetic smile, then followed after Rachel.
Della glanced at the street, but there was no sign of life out there, so she shut the door and locked it before following her visitors.
She couldn’t wait to ask her warden about Rachel. Were they high-school sweethearts? Why did they break up? She sensed a country song in the making.
She found Rachel rummaging through the cabinet and Gretchen hovering next to the island looking sheepish.
Rachel pulled out a stack of plates and set them down next to the brownies. “I’m sorry, I don’t know where my manners went. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Oh.” A disconnected feeling circled through Della. She hadn’t had to introduce herself since she was a teenager. She was used to hearing her name screamed, chanted, or whispered everywhere she went. It felt odd to have to tell someone her name. Well, her fake name, anyway.
“I’m Lucy Carmichael.” Her transformation into small-town girl hadn’t felt real until she said her name out loud to people she’d never met.
Now there it was, out in the open.
She slid into the rest of the role she was supposed to play with a wicked grin. “Donny’s girlfriend.”