Chapter 4 Anna
FOUR
ANNA
Ihave a man in my house.
I have a bruised, bleeding, professional fighter sleeping on my couch, and apart from the actual freakin’ fear that he might kill me when I’m not looking, I face a slew of other risks too.
Like, it’s possible he might die at some point in the next twelve hours, because I didn’t insist on taking him to the hospital. It’s also possible I’ll be charged—regardless of whether he lives or dies—for my participation in a car accident resulting in grievous bodily harm… and not reporting it.
If I’m charged, I face disciplinary action, and worst-case, being disbarred.
Additionally, I have a wedding to attend in seven days; if I don’t turn up, Melanie will be so mad.
And let’s not ignore those annoying, stabbing instincts in the base of my belly that wonders… why, on the same night three wanted felons flee a multi-million-dollar crime scene, was Dean on the road… allegedly exercising… in a ski mask, jeans, and boots?
Exercising, my ass.
I sneak out my front door early the next morning, tiptoeing past my unconscious—but still alive—guest, with a piping hot coffee in one hand, and my phone clasped tightly in the other.
I slept about thirty seconds in total last night, and those thirty seconds left me sweating and squirming from the killer-clown-is-coming-to-get-you nightmares.
Because I have an injured, and potentially very dangerous, stranger in my house!
I shut my front door with a silent snick and turn to face the snow-covered road.
Preparing myself for potential devastation, I close my eyes and adjust my head, bringing it just two inches to the right.
Please don’t be bad. Please don’t be bad.
Please don’t be bad. With a shuddering exhale, I crack my eyes open and stop on my car as she sleeps under a blanket of white.
Fog races ahead of me as I move off my porch and down the steps. Snow crunches under my shoes as I approach my car with slow, measured steps, and study her forest green exterior. Her whitewall tires. Her dent—mercifully small, considering her horrific ordeal—stamped into the solid steel bumper.
If I were driving a soft-top zipabout, the damage would be far, far worse.
I cast a wary eye back toward my house, all silent on the inside, the only movement is that of smoke wafting from my chimney, then I look to the right, to a house wrapped in six million Christmas lights and a weird reindeer inflatable that takes up most of their lawn.
I peek left and find a house not all that different; lights, lawn ornaments, there’s even a manger with a baby doll frozen to death in the snow.
And then there’s me, the overworked—and prefers it that way—bah-humbugging grump with no tree, no sparkling lights, no eggnog in the fridge, and not a single plan for Christmas morning.
I used to love the holidays.
I shamelessly spent my time spewing tinsel and glitter all over the place, singing along with Michael Bublé and Mariah Carey, baking up a storm, and dedicating entire weekends to selecting the perfect wrapping paper for each of my friends.
I openly and gleefully basked in my obnoxious obsession with the holidays, and held no apologies for it.
But now…
I let out a quiet sigh.
Now, I can’t seem to summon the energy to care.
Mel’s front door opens three houses down, just like it does every morning at six o’clock on the dot, and before too much heat escapes her home, she steps out in thick fleece-lined leggings, knee-high boots, a coat I know belongs to Nick, and a bright, stunning smile swinging my way.
She waves with a glove-covered hand, hugging a to-go thermos coffee cup in the other, and skipping across her porch and through her yard, she emerges on the outside of the gate that was once sticky and squeaky.
Not anymore. Not now that Nick has moved in and declared himself Mel’s life perfecter.
Casting a wary glance to my front door to make sure it’s still closed, I back away from my slightly-dented car and meander to the road, turning right, while Mel angles left, so we meet up in the middle.
She wraps her arm in mine and snuggles in tight. “It’s cold as balls today, huh?” She lays her cheek on my shoulder, her body warmth pushing out to lend itself to me. “Only eight days left until Christmas.”
“Seven days until your wedding.” I fall into step beside her and do that thing we do every single morning; walk our block before the rest of the world wakes.
For this hour, it’s just me and my best friend. Deadlines don’t matter, depositions are irrelevant, my dating life isn’t a topic of conversation, and the man on my couch needn’t be mentioned. “Are you crazy excited yet? Or just crazy crazy?”
She snickers, so soft and sweet and gooey in her love. “Crazy excited, mostly. What happened last night, anyway?”
“What?” I yank her to a stop and spill hot coffee on my hand. “W-what do you mean, what happened?”
“You were talking to us, then you weren’t.” She searches my eyes, oblivious to the blood roaring in my ears, the panic scorching my veins. “Guess your phone went dead. I started to worry, but then I heard your car rumbling along our street and figured you’d made it home safely.”
“And you didn’t think to check on me, anyway?” I roll my eyes, faux-casual. “You were worried, and then poof, you weren’t?”
A bright red blush tinges her cheeks. “I got busy.”
“Busy, my ass,” I tease. But damn, I’m thrilled for this version of Melanie Hamilton. The one who gets laid as often as she likes, doesn’t lose sleep over dumb things, and runs her own successful architecture firm with a fancy-pants office almost an hour away in the city.
This version of Mel is beautiful and bold and, sometimes, a little braggy about her sex life.
The old version was sad and lonely and entirely too shy for her own good.
“It’s bad manners to allllways rub the devilishly handsome Nicolas Ramos in my face, ya know?
Not all of us could put an ad in the paper and get what you got. ”
“I mean…” Her eyes dance with taunting playfulness. “You have a wedding to attend soon, and I see no plus one attached to your name. If you wanted to take a swing at it, now would be the perfect time to do it.”
And risk my new hire running into Dean freakin’ Warner in the living room?
“Nah. I’m good.” We continue walking again, our steps in sync so the crunch of snow beneath our shoes creates a harmony. “Thanks, though.”
“I saw Carter roll into your driveway last night.” She waggles her brows and does a little booty dance until our hips bump together. “I know we kinda mock him behind his back, because he’s weird and annoying sometimes…”
I choke out a laugh.
“But if you changed your mind about him or whatever… like, if you decided you liked him, but you were scared I’d tease you for it—”
“Oh, please.” I take a sip of my piping hot coffee. “Have I ever worried about being laughed at?”
“Well… Not particularly.”
“Exactly. So, if I secretly wanted to bang Detective James, I’d do it. Except, it wouldn’t be a secret. I’d tell you while we walked, and then we’d discuss why size matters.”
She snorts, piggish and silly and so, so good for my heart. Melanie Hamilton deserves to smile. “Nick says I shouldn’t play the comparison game anymore. He says it’s inappropriate.”
“Because he’s afraid he can’t compare?”
“Because it’s not fair to the rest of mankind, and because it’s especially not fair to you, since I, he so proudly declares, got the best one.”
I slip on a small patch of ice, almost losing my balance—and my life, dammit—as I grab on to my best friend and threaten to take her down with me. Laughter bursts from my throat, unraveling the knot of tension I’ve carried in my belly since last night.
Since last month, really.
“Anna!” Screeching, Mel skids on the patch and braces herself with wide legs. “Don’t pull on me!”
“I burned myself!” Coffee soaks into my sleeve and travels most of the length of my forearm. “Why didn’t you save me?”
“Because I would’ve spilled my coffee too!” Snort-giggling, she sips from her completely secure, Nick-supplied thermos. Which was a far more sensible choice than my regular cup. Her dancing eyes come back to mine, glittering and beautiful. “You wanna tell me what’s going on yet?”
Oop. There’s that stomach tension again. “What?”
“It’s something…” She points a gloved finger to the tip of her nose. “Something more than just the time of the year, and it’s got you all wound up, Annaliese Maxwell. I’ve known you since we were four years old. I know when you’re in a tizzy.”
“God, you’re so full of shit!” Oh God. No, she’s not. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I dunno…” She hums the words, narrowing her eyes and looking me up and down. “It could be work, I guess. You have a big case coming up in January. It could be Detective James…” She crinkles her nose. “Doubt it, though. He’s never rated a heavy-brow meltdown.”
“Heavy-brow?” I bring my hand up and massage the deep line marking my forehead. “Detective James rates nothing.”
“It could be my wedding. I talk about it a lot. I’ve put a lot of responsibility in your lap.” And here comes the old Mel, squealing back onto the tracks. “Maybe you’re sick of hearing about it.”
“For frigg’s sake.” I straighten out from my weird, almost-fell-over stance and wrap my arm around hers. Turning us back the way we came, I snatch her coffee and declare it communal. “I love hearing about your wedding, dummy. You’re my best friend, which means I want to know everything.”
“But maybe it’s getting to be too much. Maybe I’m being too much…”
“Maybe you’re not enough,” I counter easily. “And by that, I mean you’re not loud enough. Not needy enough. Not annoying enough. It’s your wedding week and you’re so ridiculously afraid of inconveniencing me, you’ve done basically everything on your own.”
“But—”