Chapter 3
SCARLETT
Iwasn’t sure where Luke was taking me, but as he wound through the empty, snow-covered streets of Clifton Forge, I didn’t ask. As long as I wasn’t in that safe house, I’d be fine.
Luke wouldn’t take me to Presley, not after his speech about putting her in danger.
Still, my spirits soared that she’d asked about me. Not just once, but every day. It was the only ray of hope I’d seen in ten days and I was clinging to it with a death grip.
Maybe, when this was over, I’d get my sister back after all.
I did my best to memorize street names as we rolled past intersections marked with signs. I wanted to know where I was, not in case I decided to run—I had nowhere to go, as Luke had so graciously reminded me—but because then I might not feel quite so lost.
Walnut Lane.
Maple Street.
Ash Court.
I recited them in my head as the headlights shone on their names. The sky above was pitch black, but the golden glow from porch lights and streetlamps reflected off the fresh snow, chasing some of the darkness away.
Luke had cranked the heat up for me and the inside of his truck was toasty compared to the frozen world beyond the windshield. Despite the warm air blowing through the vents, I shivered, mostly from nerves and adrenaline. From fear.
I’d spent my whole life trying not to shiver. Trying not to show when I was afraid. Most of the time it was easy. After twenty-eight years, faking happy was my specialty. But tonight, I didn’t have the strength to keep the trembling at bay.
So I shivered.
Deep, bone-shaking quakes. They felt endless. They came from my soul.
I’d sat inside Luke’s truck three times now but I hadn’t really noticed the differences between it and a normal vehicle before.
Between us, a computer was attached to the console.
On the dash, there were rows and rows of buttons and switches.
A flash of green lights moved up and down in a row beside a radio headset, like someone was speaking but Luke had turned off the volume.
The cab smelled like Luke. Like sandalwood and earth. He didn’t give off a spicy scent or douse himself in cologne, something Jeremiah had done no matter how many times I’d suggested one squirt was plenty.
Luke’s scent wasn’t overpowering or noticeable unless you stood close. It was simply soothing. Rich and deep. Solid.
The truck smelled like rubber too. Because everything in the truck seemed to be covered in a layer of the black material, from the floor to the lining on the doors. The rubber made sense. If a suspect was bleeding or vomited in the back, rubber would be easy to hose clean.
Too bad our home in Chicago hadn’t had more rubber.
Blood wasn’t easy to extract from carpet fibers or cotton shirts.
Unless Presley was the one doing the cleaning.
She’d mastered blood-stain removal by the time we were preteens.
Meanwhile, I was the one who’d learned how to apply a butterfly bandage to minimize a scar.
I could wrap broken ribs in under five minutes.
The bodily wounds were easy to heal. The wounds to the heart and soul, well . . . those were a different story. Ignoring them was usually how I tended them. For better or for worse, shoving the hard truths away was my coping mechanism of choice.
Luke had pleaded with me to confide in him. To trust him.
I swallowed a laugh. Every man who’d ever asked for my trust had betrayed it. My father. Jeremiah. Maybe Luke was different, but I certainly wasn’t going to test that theory.
Trust? No, thanks. I’d keep my secrets. Too much was riding on them, especially my life.
If word got out of the video on my phone, I’d die a slow, agonizing death at the hands of the Warriors. Or it would mean a one-way ticket to a new identity.
Maybe I didn’t love Scarlett Marks. Maybe she’d been a coward her entire life. Maybe she should have fought harder, done better. But she was me. And one of these days, I’d find a way to redeem her.
Witness protection wasn’t an option. Not yet. Not until I’d exhausted every other option to convince the Warriors I’d been Jeremiah’s scapegoat.
How? Not a clue. But I’d figure it out. I’d fix this fuckup and rebuild my life. And until then, the best way to protect myself was by keeping my mouth shut.
I supposed I had my father to thank for my uncanny ability to bury my pain. He’d taught us young that a smile could be the greatest deceit.
No one had ever suspected what life had been like for Presley and me.
Teachers. Neighbors. Pastors. When they looked at us, all they saw were two little girls who wore pink and curled their long blond hair in pretty ringlets.
They saw my mother as the shy, soft-spoken woman who preferred to spend her days at home.
And my father was the greatest deceiver of them all.
He was a monster who’d shake your hand at church on Sunday and crack the best jokes during a neighborhood barbecue.
Sorry, Luke. My hard truths were none of your damn business. Telling them would be like slashing cuts through scars.
Luke slowed and took a right. The angle of the turn caused me to miss the street’s sign, but the lights down this block seemed to glow brighter. Cleaner. Happier, even.
This neighborhood was newer than the one I’d walked through earlier.
We passed an open lot where the ground around a large For Sale sign was blanketed with snow.
Beside it was a house in the middle of construction.
The walls had been erected and the windows installed, sporting their stickers, but there was no siding on the exterior and the front door was a sheet of plywood.
Curiosity won out and I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “Where are we going?”
Luke didn’t answer, serving me with a dose of my own medicine. Touché, Chief.
He slowed in front of a two-story house with dormer windows protruding from the roof. The lights were off inside but the exterior fixtures shone bright.
The siding was an eggshell color, board and batten in some sections, straight horizontal in others. The windows were trimmed in black instead of the standard white and the wooden front door had been stained a grayish white to match the garage doors.
This was a family’s home. It wasn’t extravagant, though it did seem slightly bigger than other homes on the block.
Luke reached for his visor and hit a button to open one of the garage doors, easing inside. Then he shut off the truck and closed the door behind us, not moving until it had lowered to the ground. That was when he got out and came around to the passenger side, opening my door for me.
Luke held out his hand, like he’d done at the safe house.
It would be so easy to slide my palm against his. To take some comfort in a human touch. But if I gave in to his hand, then I might give in to his help. Bit by bit, he’d wear me down until my resolve crumbled.
So I hugged my bag, a navy backpack that held my worldly possessions, and hopped out of the truck to land on my own two feet.
Luke sighed but didn’t speak as he led the way to the interior door. He opened it and flipped on a light.
I followed behind him, entering the house through a mud and laundry room.
Luke hung his keys on a hook beside the door, then planted a hand against the wall, using it for balance as he toed off his boots.
This is his house. He’d brought me to his house. Why?
I stared at him, waiting for an explanation.
Luke didn’t offer one. He simply walked away, turning on the lights as he strode through his home.
He had a confident walk, every step sure and unhurried.
Without his boots on, the cuff of his jeans dragged on the floor, and the denim fell differently down his long legs, accentuating the strength in his thighs.
Molding to that sculped ass. I could still feel the heat in my fist from where I’d hit him earlier.
My cheeks flamed. Was it from embarrassment? Or lust? There was no denying that Luke Rosen had one hell of a body and one hell of a striking face.
Not the time, Scarlett. This was, most definitely, not the time to study Luke’s firm behind.
I dropped my chin, studying the brick pattern of the tiled floor as it disappeared beneath the washing machine.
My toes were frozen in my shoes and my socks squished a little at the toes, but I didn’t take either of them off.
Instead, I carefully emerged into the kitchen, following Luke’s path across the hardwood floor.
His smell wasn’t as strong inside as it had been in the truck, but it was still there, an ever-present reminder that this was his personal space. And for some reason, he’d invited me inside.
The kitchen’s bright lights illuminated the space. Black pendants hung above the island’s shiny gray quartz countertop. The stainless-steel appliances broke up the rows of white cabinets.
He had a farmhouse sink.
My mother and I had taken to watching home improvement shows over the past five years.
We’d curl up together on the living room couch, share a bowl of popcorn and watch HGTV.
My father would read, keeping us under his watchful eye, but it was the one channel he didn’t mind having on in the background.
If she could see this place—that sink—she’d swoon. Luke’s kitchen had all the color schemes and features she loved most.
My heart clenched as I pictured my mother’s face. Had she survived my escape? Did she regret shoving me out the door?
Luke picked up a remote from the wooden coffee table in the living room and pushed a button, sending the shades over every window scrolling down. Then he turned to me, his face gentling as he blew out a deep breath.
“This is my house,” he said. “You can stay here. Until we have a long-term solution, this will be better than the other place.”
I blinked. Was he serious?
Luke dragged a hand over his dark brown hair, mussing the neatly combed strands. I wasn’t the only one who was tired of this day. “Come in. Make yourself at home.”
I didn’t move away from the kitchen island.