Chapter 34 Louise
LOUISE
After Ryder stormed out of the kitchen, I stayed rooted in place, listening—hoping—for the sound of his return. But the house remained quiet.
Between the mugshot and that kiss, I was more intrigued—and more dangerously obsessed—than ever.
Outside, night fell like a curtain of velvet, heavy and cold. Snow thickened against the windows, and the temperature dropped with the same suddenness as his absence. An hour passed in silence as I waited. The fire dimmed. The house settled.
He didn’t come back.
Maybe he needed space. Maybe he always needed space. Part of me wondered if that kiss had been the most he’d opened up to anyone in years… and if he already regretted it.
But I didn’t.
Not even close.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it—his hands, his mouth, the way he kissed like it hurt him to want me. Like he couldn’t help it.
Neither could I.
I made myself an organic chicken salad and ate at the breakfast nook, watching the snow whirl through the icy night. To my surprise, the low-carb, high-protein dinner was not only satisfying, but helped take the edge off the guilt from my confession that I didn’t exercise.
Why didn’t I exercise? Honestly, I just hated it. But had I really tried it? Gotten past that grueling first ten minutes that made you feel like you were going to die? No, because Louise Sloane never thought about the bigger picture.
Ryder was right. I was lost.
I didn’t take another sip of alcohol that night.
After cleaning up, I retreated to my room—his room—where I soaked in the copper tub that was quickly becoming my favorite place. I wondered how many other women had soaked in it.
I thought of the secret room, the passports, the money, the guns, all the people Ryder had killed. How different our lives were. How different we were. I thought about his time in prison.
And that’s when it hit me. Suddenly, all the pieces of the weird Ryder puzzle began to take shape… and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t seen it before.
Ryder wasn’t an inherently odd, antisocial jerk. He was a victim of circumstance.
As I soaked in the bath, contemplating this, everything added up. The massive house with soaring ceilings and hallways as wide as a racetrack. The acres and acres of fields. The miles of woods, streams, and rivers.
Space.
The man spent ten years locked in an eight-by-eight jail cell.
Ryder wasn’t grandiose or overindulgent, he simply wanted space and fresh air.
The minimal clothing and lack of furniture wasn’t odd; it was because he simply didn’t need it.
He had chairs where he sat, and a bed where he slept.
That was all he needed. His bed and bathroom were luxurious because he’d slept on a plank and showered in the same room as serial killers.
His indulgence in cooking, quality food, and expensive booze was because he didn’t have a bit of good food or a drop of alcohol in ten years.
His ripped, muscular body (I imagined), was because it was his only weapon in prison. Ryder had probably spent every day pumping iron, not just to stay healthy, but more so to send a message to the other inmates.
His hermit lifestyle, his solitude—it was because he didn’t trust anyone.
Hell, he probably hated the human race. Ryder had spent a decade living with the scum of society, and I could only assume that after his arrest, he was labeled the scum of Berry Springs.
In his own hometown. I couldn’t imagine the gossip and sidelong glances he’d endured.
Wow.
The layers that made up this man were so deep, I wondered if anyone would ever get to see the real Ryder. His soul, who he truly was, deep down. And then I wondered if he even remembered who that guy was. The real Ryder, the one before he murdered a man.
The thought was so sad to me.
With Ryder, everything had a reason. You just had to find it.
That night, my view of him changed. There were reasons for the madness. I just wished I knew the biggest riddle of all.
Why did he kill Leon Ortiz?
After the bath, I’m not too proud to admit that I pulled on one of Ryder’s T-shirts, crawled into his bed, and attempted to sleep.
Sometime after one in the morning, I got up and began pacing his bedroom, until eventually, I crept into the hallway.
I wanted to explore more. Learn more about the man who was slowly revealing himself to me.
I glanced into the first room to my left and stopped cold.
With no blanket, no pillow, Ryder was asleep on the hardwood floor, fully clothed with his arms crossed over his chest like a pharaoh in a tomb.
I froze, staring at him, afraid that if I made the slightest sound, he’d wake. And also because I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Although he was asleep, his face was pulled tight as if he were in a bad dream.
I wanted to hug him. Hold him. Tell him everything was going to be all right.
Didn’t he have any other place to sleep? Not a couch, a cot, a sleeping bag? And why right next to me? To keep an eye on me? Or maybe to be there if I needed something? I craved the latter.
His shoulder jerked, and I spun on my heel and darted back into my room. I closed the door and jumped under the covers, where I remained the rest of the night.
It was day two of waking up in Ryder’s glorious king-size bed, but unlike the first night, I’d barely slept a wink. Tossing and turning, replaying the day before. The mugshot, the stash of cash, the targets. The kiss.
I brushed back my bangs and looked at the window.
Based on the lack of light behind the curtains, I decided it was still early morning.
I gripped my pillow and rolled over, squeezing my eyes shut, but knowing I was past the point of no return.
Last I’d checked the time, it was 3:40 in the morning.
I must have drifted off after that, but it was that weird state where you didn’t know if you were asleep or not.
Something pummeled into my stomach.
I shot up like a cannon, my pillow tumbling to the floor. Startled and confused, I blinked at the dark silhouette in front of me, then down at the pair of running shoes on the comforter, then back to the man in front of me.
“What the hell are you doing?” I rasped, sounding like a chain-smoking trucker.
“Morning jog. Let’s go.”
“Morning what? No. Those two words don’t go together.”
“They do in this house.”
I looked down at my lap. “How did you get my shoes?”
“They were in your bag.”
“You went through my stuff?”
“Doesn’t feel good, does it?”
I rolled my eyes.
He opened the curtains. Snow and dark.
“It’s literally freezing outside. And still dark.”
“It’s eleven degrees, and the sun is coming up. It will be beautiful against the snow.”
To hear him use an emotional word like beautiful proved to me how much he loved his nature. His space.
“I’ve already shoveled the trail,” he said. “Wear those stained long johns you have under your blue sweatpants.”
“No shirt?”
“Optional.”
“I can’t believe you went through my stuff.”
“I can’t believe you went through mine.”
“Why the blue ones?”
“I like blue.”
“Fine.” With a groan, I ripped off the covers and flung my legs over the side of the bed, not remembering I was wearing only a T-shirt over a pair of pink panties. His T-shirt.
Heat rose to my cheeks.
If Ryder cared, he didn’t show it. In fact, the flash of heat in his eyes suggested he liked it. Butterflies zipped through my stomach as his gaze slowly slid from the T-shirt to my bare legs.
I yanked the sheets over my legs and fumbled to find something to say. I came up with—
“How do you look so perfect and put together for…” I looked around the room. “Why the hell don’t you have a clock in this room?”
“It’s five thirty-seven, and I have good genes. Let’s go.”
I sighed, then nodded. A moment passed.
“Can I have some privacy, please? Or is that something else that doesn’t happen in this house?”
He turned and started for the door.
“Hey, Ryder,” I called out after him. “Coffee first—then jog. Just so we’re clear.”
“Jog first, then coffee.”
“No way. I can’t—”
“It’ll be the best damn coffee you’ve ever had. Get dressed. I’ll meet you outside in three minutes.”
“Five.”
“Four.”
“I’m growing to hate you as much as you hate me.”
“Doubtful.” He strode out of the room.
“Hey, Ryder?”
“What?” he hollered from the hallway without breaking his stride.
“It was fruit punch.”
“What was fruit punch?”
“The stains on my long johns.”
“I wasn’t going to ask. Believe me.”