Chapter 68
RIGGS
Emily wandered back over from her new house some time after dark, letting herself in through the front door. When she finds her way to the kitchen, I’m reading the instructions on the heat press Gemma bought for her treat bags.
“What are you doing?”
Looking up from the instructions, I sigh. “Trying to figure out how this thing works,” I tell her, waving the paper at her.
Emily laughs. “It’s not hard,” she says, coming toward me. Picking up the heat press, she plugs it into the wall. Seconds later, she has one of Gemma giant chocolate chip cookies packaged and sealed in a neat cellophane sleeve.
“Well, what the fuck have I been doing?” I grumble, tossing the paper on the counter before looking up at her.
Swallowing hard, Emily shakes her head while taking a quick step back. “Those instruction booklets are useless,” she says flashing me a quick, frantic smile while she keeps moving away from me, eyes aimed at the floor in total deference. “I’m sure you would’ve figured it out on your own.”
“Don’t count on it,” I tell her, pretending not to notice how nervous she is.
“There’s a reason I joined the Marines.” When she doesn’t laugh at my lame attempt at breaking the tension, I sigh.
“It’s okay, Emily,” I tell her softly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.
You didn’t say anything wrong. Everything is fine.
You didn’t insult me. You didn’t make me angry.
” I give her a few seconds to answer me before I try again.
“Want to help me get this stuff bagged up and labeled so Gem won’t have to do it when she gets home? ”
Like I hoped, mentioning Gemma seems to break through whatever barrier she’s struggling behind. Looking up at me, Emily gives me another smile. “Yes. Okay.” Bobbing her head, she lets out a long, slow breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“PTSD, probably,” I answer her honestly. I’ve seen it enough to know the signs. “But that’s for a therapist to decide. Do you have one?”
“A therapist?” She shakes her head. “No.” Turning toward the sink, she hesitates for a moment before her jaw sets at a stubborn angle that reminds me of her best friend.
Reaching down, she gives her shirt sleeves a determined jerk, revealing a set of deep purple bruises that look like someone grabbed her and dragged half way across Texas.
Turning on the faucet she adds soap and begins to furiously scrub her hands. “Kevin wouldn’t have liked it.”
“Well, fuck Kevin,” I say, struggling to keep my tone light and casual because what I really want to do is find Kevin.
When I say it, Emily’s entire body relaxes.
Her shoulders release. She stops scrubbing her hands like she’s trying to skin them.
Her jaw unclenches. “Yeah.” Turning the water off, she turns and gives me the first, genuine smile I’ve seen from her since Cade found her on the porch. “Yeah—fuck Kevin.”
We ordered pizza, careful to keep the greasy cheese and pepperoni away from Gem’s treats and wearing food handler gloves while we packaged them between slices.
Slathering a slice in Churu, I put it on a paper plate and gave it to Janet who’s given up trying to get into the kitchen and has taken up residence on my bed.
I’m almost positive I’ll wake up to a dead rodent in my sock drawer.
“You know,” Emily says while she slides an oatmeal cream pie into a cellophane sleeve. “Dent’s workshop runs on its own circuit and it’s wired for 220. She could convert it into a bakery, easily enough.”
“She could.” I nod while I measure out slices of pound cake and place them in white paper boxes. “But I think the better option is taking over Beau’s.”
Gaping at me, Emily uses the heat press to seal her cream pie.
“Beau’s closed down?” When I nod, Emily scoffs.
“You’re right. That would be perfect.” Setting her wrapped cream pie aside, she bobbles her head.
“I’ll work on her. She usually caves for me.
Just about the only thing she hasn’t budged on is letting me pay off Dent’s taxes. ”
I give her a grim smile, more relieved that I should be that I’m not the only one she’s turning down when it comes to help. “I’ll ask Colt who owns the building,” I tell her. “Maybe we can work out a deal.”
“Maybe…” Reaching for another cream pie, she goes quiet for a few moments before she speaks again. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
Flicking me a nervous looks, Emily licks her lips while she packages her cream pie. “Do you have it? PTSD… from when you were…”
“Trapped under a building for three days?” I finish for her in a casual tone that doesn’t quite cover how I feel when I think about it. “No.”
“Really?” She looks skeptical.
“Really.” I don’t know how to explain it to her without sounding like I had some sort of psychotic break while I was down there because Gemma was with me. She was talking to me. Keeping me alive. Keeping me sane—and that doesn’t sound sane at all.
“The people you where trapped with?—”
“Freeman and Gallagher.” I’ll never not take the opportunity to say their names out loud because they deserve to be remembered. “They didn’t make it.”
Nodding her head quietly, Emily looks down at her hands. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” I say, my throat feeling dry and rusty. “Freeman was a total unit. First in her class for everything. She never gave up. Gallagher was a reservist. Joined up to pay for college… he was just coming up on his first wedding anniversary.”
Giving me a long, wounded look, Emily chews on her lip for a moment before she speaks. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have?—”
“No.” I shake my head, gaze aimed at the piece of cake I’m boxing up. “Don’t be sorry—they were good Marines. Even better people. They deserve to be talked about.”
Giving me a timid smile, she packages her last cream pie and pulls off her gloves, just as the sound of Cade’s Challenger pulls up outside. Looking at the kitchen clock, hanging above the microwave she stands. “Good night. Tell Gemma I’ll see her in the morning.”
“Okay.” Giving her a head bob, I sit back in my chair and watch her disappear up the stairs.