Chapter 37
THIRTY SEVEN
THE FRESH EVENING air carries the scent of grass and the quiet hush of the suburban street settling into dusk.
My legs feel shaky, disconnected, as I swing them out of my car and onto the driveway.
I close the door, the soft thud the only sound in the stillness.
For a long moment, I just stand there, clutching my purse straps, staring at Matthew’s house.
Cream stone and brown accents. Windows like dark, impassive eyes reflect the deepening twilight.
My heart hammers against my throat, a painful, insistent rhythm. Each step up the gravel path feels heavy, each footfall echoing louder than it should.
The solid door stands silent before me.
The unassuming doorbell beside it seems impossibly small for the enormity of what pressing it represents. The soft chime echoes faintly from inside the house, the sound swallowed by the thick wood of the door. And then…
Silence.
I stand frozen, straining my ears for any sound of movement within.
Footsteps, a voice, anything.
Nothing.
Only the thudding of my heart and the whisper of the evening breeze rustling the leaves.
Seconds stretch into an eternity.
My shoulders slump. A weary disappointment settles over me, quickly followed by the sting of humiliation.
Of course.
What did I expect?
After all the unanswered messages, the calls straight to voicemail, showing up here was desperate, foolish.
Inhaling a sharp breath of resigned acceptance, I turn away.
The distinct click of a deadbolt turning cuts through the silence behind me.
I freeze mid-step, my back rigid, every nerve ending instantly on high alert.
Slowly, holding my breath, I turn back around.
The heavy oak panel swings inward. Matthew is there, framed in the opening.
He tilts his head, resting his temple wearily against the wood’s edge.
His other arm stretches out, bracing against the opposite doorjamb, the movement pulling the black cotton of his T-shirt taut across the hard lines of his biceps and shoulder.
His dark hair is slightly messy, falling over his forehead.
His green eyes find mine. The deep sadness I see there sends an ache straight through my chest.
He just looks at me, his expression unreadable beyond that evident weariness. He runs a hand slowly through his tousled hair. A long sigh escapes him. Then, without a word, he steps back into the dimly lit entryway and leaves the door open.
Every instinct screams to retreat to my car and drive away. To escape this tense, weighted silence.
But I can’t.
The need to understand, to try to bridge this awful chasm between us, is stronger than the nervousness churning in my gut.
My foot lifts, hesitant, then steps across the threshold. Matthew pushes the door shut before turning to face me.
Suddenly, we’re enclosed in this softly lit foyer after days of radio silence.
I’m instantly flustered. Words tumble out before I can properly form them. “I tried calling. You weren’t answering, so I-I thought I’d just…” My voice trails off under his penetrating gaze.
“Why are you here, Amy?” His voice is flat and tired, yet intensely focused.
He takes a step toward me, and I instinctively retreat, my nerves skittering along my skin. “I-I told you. I even texted you…”
He takes another slow step forward, closing the small distance I just created, his eyes never leaving mine. “Why are you here, Amy?” he repeats with the same flat insistence.
I try to step back again, but my heel hits something solid. My back presses against the short wall separating the foyer from the living room.
“I tried t-to… you weren’t answering my calls, my messages… twice…” The words are disjointed, my brain struggling to function as he takes another step, closing the remaining space between us.
He stops mere inches away. His scent overwhelms my senses.
A heady blend of cedarwood with hints of amber.
My heart lodges firmly in my throat, pounding violently, making it nearly impossible to draw a breath, let alone speak.
His chest, covered by the thin black cotton of his t-shirt, rises and falls heavily, almost in sync with my own ragged breathing.
“Why, Amy?” His voice is quieter now, gravelly, his eyes boring into mine, searching.
He leans in fractionally, the minute movement stealing the last remnants of space between us. Our bodies lightly brush. The heat of his chest sears through my sweater. His face is so close I can see the tiny flecks of gold in his green irises and the faint stubble shadowing his jaw.
I swallow hard, unable to look away, caught entirely in his stare.
“Why?” he repeats, his breath warm against my skin.
He holds his ground, pinning me with nothing but his proximity and his unwavering gaze.
“I… I needed to see you,” the confession bursts out, raw and nervous, torn from my constricted throat.
“Why?” His question is barely a whisper, yet it holds more weight than all the others.
The weariness in his eyes deepens, mingled with profound sadness and vulnerability.
Suddenly, his phone starts ringing. The jarring sound echoes from another room deeper in the house, cutting the thick tension like a knife.
Matthew doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t move. His eyes remain locked on mine, his body still a hair’s breadth away.
We’re frozen, caught in this impossibly close, silent standoff, while the phone continues its insistent summons.
The ringing stops abruptly, plunging us back into charged silence, only to start up again. Just as loud. Just as demanding.
Something shifts in Matthew’s eyes, the green hardening as annoyance surfaces.
“Fuck,” he mutters low under his breath.
He pulls back sharply, the movement stiff and forced. Scrubbing a hand roughly over his face, he evades my eyes as the phone continues its relentless ringing from the other room.
“It’s important,” he says, his voice clipped, tight with annoyance. “I need to—”
The doorbell interrupts him, its sound joining the insistent ringing of the phone.
Matthew’s head snaps towards the front door, his jaw tightening as sheer frustration flashes across his face.
He grits his teeth, pivoting toward the kitchen. “Please get that, will you?” He jabs a finger in my direction without turning around. “And tell whoever it is to get lost,” he yells back before answering his phone.
His sharp command breaks my paralysis. I push off the wall, legs unsteady, body moving of its own accord. I cross the foyer and pull the door open, my actions feeling distant, disconnected.
An older man stands at the doorstep. His eyes make me instantly wary.
They are pale, washed-out blue, and they narrow the moment they land on me, a hard, unpleasant glint surfacing in their depths.
He looks to be in his sixties, with thinning white-grey hair receding from a deeply lined forehead.
A trimmed goatee and mustache do nothing to soften his mouth, set in a hard, thin line.
His clothes are scruffy, rumpled, as if he’s slept in them.
He looks as surprised to see me as I am to see him, but his surprise quickly morphs. His gaze sweeps down, taking in my presence in this foyer, and the open curiosity sharpens into something assessing. Something that feels like ownership.
“And who might you be?” he asks. The question itself is a gruff, audacious demand.
Without waiting for an answer, he takes a confident step across the threshold. My own feet carry me backward in an automatic, stumbling retreat.
His gaze sweeps right past me, dismissing me completely as he surveys the foyer. The set of his shoulders, the slight lift of his chin… it’s the posture of a man who believes he has every right to be here.
A cold revulsion snakes up my spine.
It’s the entitled way he just claims the space.
It’s the challenging glint in his eyes.
It’s the feeling of being sized up and dismissed all at once.
I frown, taken aback by his audacity. “Can I help you?”
The old man brings his attention back to me, ignoring my question, an unpleasant smile spreading across his face. He approaches me, intentionally invading my personal space, forcing me to press my back harder against the newel post at the base of the staircase.
“Well, now.” He looks me up and down again. “He’s clearly done good for himself if he snagged a sexy little thing like you.”
Revulsion coils tight as his fingers reach out, aiming for my cheek. I flinch back, turning my head instinctively, but his hand keeps coming—
Suddenly, a blur of motion erupts.
Matthew’s hand clamps around the old man’s wrist, stopping it inches from my face. With a guttural sound of rage low in his throat, he yanks him backward, away from me, wrenching him around. There’s a sickening thud as he slams the man’s back hard against the wall opposite me.
Before the old man can even grunt in pain, Matthew has him pinned there.
And then I see it. The glint of metal.
A knife is pressed firmly against the wrinkled skin of his throat.
The blade catches the soft foyer light, sharp and lethal.
Matthew’s body is coiled, radiating a fury I’ve never seen before.
His face, inches from the old man’s, is unrecognizable, filled only with chilling menace.
The cords of muscle in his forearm are rigid, trembling with contained force.
His breath comes in harsh, controlled pants.
“Don’t. You. Dare. Touch. Her.” Matthew grits out, each word precise. A low snarl, vibrating with violence.
He presses the blade harder against the man’s throat. “If you even look her way again,” he breathes, the sound deadly and chillingly calm, “I’ll make sure her face is the last thing you ever see.”
My breath freezes in my lungs. I stare wide-eyed, unable to process the scene unfolding a few feet away.
The old man lets out a choked sound against the pressure of the blade. “Relax, boy—”