Chapter 6 #3
“We’re glad to have you all.” Ruthie patted his arm. “It’s nice having younger people in the community, even if it’s only for a month.”
The hockey game went to intermission. Dean switched it to college basketball—some rivalry game that had him and Craig immediately arguing about coaching decisions.
Daphne caught Asher’s eye across the room. You okay?
He nodded back.
But he wasn’t okay. Watching her laugh with Renee and Destiny, watching Roger relax with Dean, watching everyone accept their cover story without question—it was working too well.
The fake family was becoming believable.
So no, nothing was okay.
An hour later, they walked home. Overhead, thunder had started to rumble, the wind crisp, carrying a nip of rain. Asher’s breath fogged in the air.
Destiny walked ahead with Roger, her arm linked through his, a mother-son bond. Sometimes, Asher forgot they were related.
Daphne walked beside Asher. Close enough their arms almost touched.
“That went well,” she said quietly.
“We needed it to go well.”
“I know.”
They reached the house. Asher unlocked the door, security system beeping. He punched in the code.
Destiny went straight to the master bedroom. “Good night. Thank you for taking me. I actually enjoyed myself.”
“Good night, Destiny.”
Roger headed to his room but paused. “Is he—” He stopped. Started again. “Does Draven know where I am?”
Asher met his eyes. Saw real fear there.
“No. You’re safe here.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Roger nodded slowly. “Good.” He glanced at Daphne. “I want pancakes for breakfast. Blueberry.”
The shift was so abrupt Asher almost laughed.
“This isn’t a resort, Roger.”
“I know. But I’m tired of protein shakes and eggs. I want pancakes.”
Asher stared at him.
Daphne said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
Roger disappeared into his room.
Daphne moved to the kitchen. “I’ll make hot cocoa. You want some?”
“Yeah. Thanks. I’ll take out the garbage.”
Sheesh, the whole domestic thing might be going to his head.
He opened the garage, brought the can to the end of the driveway just as the sky opened up.
Rain pinged down on him, freezing droplets that shivered down his shirt.
Across their tiny lawn to the other house, Mark was also pulling out his can.
Asher lifted a hand to him like, Howdy, neighbor.
Oh brother.
Mark acknowledged him and ran back to the house, the leaves of the big oak in his front yard shaking off in the wind.
Asher ran back to the house too, soaked through.
Daphne was pulling out the mugs as Asher did a final security check. Cameras functioning—check. Perimeter clear—check. Motion sensors armed—all good.
Outside, the rain picked up, pinging harder against the windows. The wind kicked up too, and when he returned to the kitchen, two mugs of hot cocoa sat on the counter. Daphne had added marshmallows to his.
“Thanks for this,” Asher said, shivering a little.
“You should change out of the wet clothes.”
He looked at her. “Worried about me?”
“No.” She took a sip of her cocoa. “But the last thing we need is for you to get sick.”
“You are worried. That’s very sweet, honeycakes.”
“On second thought, go stand in the rain.”
He grinned. And she did too.
Then she slid onto one of the counter stools. Wrapped her hands around her mug. Steam rising. Marshmallows melting.
“I get the pancake thing,” she said and nodded at Roger’s room. “My happiest memory is eating pancakes with my dad.”
Asher stilled.
“He’d come home after his shift. Three a.m., sometimes four a.m. Late-night patrol. And instead of going to bed, he’d wake me up and we’d go to Millie’s Diner.”
“Wait—the one out on Route 40? Where we—”
“Yep, that one. I stopped there because, you know…habit.” She gave him a soft smile. “It would be just the two of us. He’d order the blueberry special. I’d get chocolate chip. And he’d quiz me.”
“Quiz you?”
“On observations. Who was sitting behind us. What the waitress was wearing. What kind of car pulled into the parking lot. License plate numbers. Details. He said good cops notice everything.” She smiled slightly. “That’s how I got so good at it. Years of pancake house training.”
Asher’s chest tightened. He could picture it. Young Daphne with her father. Learning to observe. Learning to be a cop. Following in his footsteps.
Before he died.
“That’s a good memory,” Asher said.
“Yeah.” She looked at him. “What about you? Any pancake memories?”
His happiest memory was his sister.
He raised a shoulder. “We used to go camping sometimes, as a family.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin jackknife.
“My dad gave me this, back when I was eight.” No bigger than a pencil, really.
“I don’t know why I still carry it. He said a man should always have a utility knife on him.
Whatever.” He put the knife back in his pocket. “Dad made pancakes over the fire.”
The memory flashed, so sharp it nearly cut—his dad burning pancakes, his sister laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.
Simple. Perfect.
Before the divorce. Before Dad had left. Before his sister had grown up and ended up dead.
Before he’d tracked down her killer and put a bullet in him.
“So, there you go. A pancake story.”
Daphne waited, the silence giving him space to say more.
But he couldn’t. Telling her about his sister meant telling her everything. Meant admitting he wasn’t the good guy, the hero she saw.
She was a good person trying to do good things.
He was…well, he didn’t know what he was anymore.
“Go to bed,” Asher said. “I’ve got first watch.”
Something—disappointment? worry?—flickered in her expression, and then she shuttered it. “Okay. Good night, Asher.”
“Good night.”
She climbed the stairs. Disappeared from view.
Asher stood in the kitchen with his hot cocoa and the weight of everything he couldn’t say.
Outside, the storm picked up, thunder rolling, lightning crackling against the sky.
He finally moved to the living room. Sat on the sectional. The security monitor on the coffee table showed the four camera feeds, blurry in the storm.
And of course, his sister crept into his head.
He pulled out his phone.
Mom’s last text sat there. Unanswered. Nearly ten days old now.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
He should respond. Should tell his mom he was working. To spread the ashes without him. He should say something other than silence.
A crack of lightning—close. And behind it, almost immediately, thunder.
Then a shearing sound, a crack, and something slammed outside.
Sounded like the world had come down. He got up and moved to the window. Cracked the curtain slightly. Scanned the street.
The trash lay in the street. And not just his, but a few others, one of them rolling.
The rain came down in sheets.
Footsteps on the stairs.
He glanced behind him. Daphne appeared, wearing her yoga pants and a tank top. Weapon in hand, her eyes sharp.
“You heard it,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Kill the lights,” Asher said.
The house went dark, only the security monitor glowing.
They met at the door, no words, and Asher eased it open.
Outside, the wind howled.
He darted onto the porch, the wind licking the rain into the alcove. Daphne grabbed his jacket off the hook and pulled it on as she slipped out behind him.
“There,” he said and pointed to Mark’s oak tree. A branch had sheared off, hit the Nova, denting the hood.
And yet, even with that, something just…felt wrong.
Asher’s gaze went to the Nova—a glow. Under the hood.
The front door of Mark’s house opened. Mark, on the porch.
He started for his car.
And in his gut, Asher just…knew. “Mark—don’t!”
He came off the porch, heading for the car, Daphne behind him. The odor of fuel hued the air despite the rain, and he shouted again—“Mark, stop!”
The fire ignited, licked out flames from the hood.
“Ash—”
Daphne. He turned. And then instinct, maybe, caused him to grab her.
“What—” she started.
Then he tackled her into the grass as the explosion lit up the night.