CHAPTER 7
Finn
I flop onto my stomach and turn my head from side to side, trying to get comfortable. It doesn’t work. So I flop on my back again.
Not happening.
I can’t relax.
This mattress cost a fucking fortune, and it’s never failed me. In fact, I’ve thought of it as money well spent, right up until now. Up until last night.
Such a long, agonizing hell of a night.
I peek out the window, relieved to see the first hint of sunrise.
Finally.
As soon as that motherfucker is up and shining, I can quit trying to pretend that I’m getting rest. I can just get my ass up for the day and be done with it.
But not a second before sunrise. Because anything before that will be an admission that the woman down the hall—nothing more than a waif, really—has prevented me from sleeping.
Well, the thought of her, anyway. The knowledge that she’s in my home. Near my daughter. Near me. Breathing the air I’m breathing.
It’s driving me crazy.
I knew this was a mistake.
That’s why I fought Phyllis on it yesterday. But then I agreed to a week trial period and decided there couldn’t be any harm in introducing Emma to Jasmine. Phyllis and I agreed that for the time being, one of us would always be in the room with the two of them.
It’s not that I get a negative vibe from Emma. Not it at all. It’s just that I don’t know her. She’s a stranger. And it’s obvious that the girl has seen some shit—she looks almost haunted, hollowed out.
Not by drugs or booze. She looks hollowed out by hard times.
And there’s a part of me that feels sorry for her.
Charity is great, but I’ll still be asking Evander to run a full background check on her first thing. I’ll tell him to use the private security firm we have on retainer for StellaR Tech business, for checking out potential subcontractors and vendors.
And yes, we also had that firm look around in Victoria’s life when we suspected her of less-than-legit motives.
I wince at that memory. Holy shit, did she get pissed off at us for that. Not long after, she dropped Cal’s ass and left on the first thing smokin’ to San Diego.
Hey, no harm, right? It all worked out. They got married last night, didn’t they?
But this thing with Emma… I’d really hoped Jasmine would be the one to put an end to Phyllis’s sinister plot. I believed my daughter would be horrified at the idea of an interloper invading our playhouse.
Unfortunately, that’s not how it went down. Jasmine loved her. She was so excited at having a houseguest that she couldn’t stop asking questions of poor exhausted Emma. But Emma smiled and was sweet and patient and told Jasmine they’d talk more in the morning.
So, Jasmine didn’t save us from the playhouse interloper, and I had to withstand the I told you so look Phyllis gave me as she left for the night.
I’m not nuts. It’s the truth. This is our sacred space.
For eight years now, since the day Jasmine was born, we’ve created our own private playhouse, no matter where we lived. Our home was where we played and laughed and figured things out together. Yes, we’ve had the love and support of Dad, Aunt Phyllis, my brothers, and our wider Navy family.
And more recently, that safety net has extended to Victoria and the families we know from Jasmine’s school.
And to Summer, Joe, and the other ranch hands.
Even Victoria’s assistant, Millicent. Yosemite Ranch itself.
And Phoebe Travis from the next ranch over, who worked as Evander’s nurse while he recovered from a gnarly compound leg fracture.
The one he got when he tried to break one of my colts while wearing a pair of Italian loafers and a three-piece suit. Dumbass.
I swing my legs over the side of my bed, trying to regain my train of thought. Where was I?
Right.
Emma Clark. Interloper. Trespasser.
This house—the home Jasmine and I share—is our creation. We built it out of the love we have for one another and the love we’ve received from our support system. We built it on a foundation of tragedy that we’ve managed to turn into joy.
I would defend our playhouse with my last breath.
Breathe.
In four. Hold four. Out four. Hold four. Repeat.
Yet again, I think of Emma down the hall in the four-poster bed, asleep. I bet she’s breathing in there. Of course she is. And if she isn’t, I’ve got bigger problems.
But I’m not doing well knowing there’s a woman down the hall in my guest bed, breathing and sleeping and dreaming or whatever the fuck else she might be doing.
My guest bed. My nerves flare to life.
This is completely ridiculous.
The sun is still not up, so I refuse to stand up from this bed. I will not rise to my feet until sunrise, no matter what. So I lean back on my hands and stare at the massive wood beams of my bedroom ceiling. I force myself to stop thinking about Emma Clark. Because it isn’t right.
Yes, there have been women since Amy’s death. And no, none of them have resulted in a sleepless night. Of course, sleep wasn’t why I was with them. And no woman has ever spent the night here.
Now there’s a woman here. I want to sleep. I can’t.
I take another series of breaths and focus on my wife. I decide to call to mind my Amy, the sum of all her parts, the experience of having her by my side. But to my horror, it’s not as sharp as it once was. My memory of her is fading.
I snatch the framed photo from my bedside table and stare at it. It’s the one of Amy and me on the beach in Coronado, near the Navy SEAL base. She was the love of my life, no doubt about it. We were married for a pitiful seven months, and together for only two months before then.
I remember how my brothers told me I was insane for marrying a girl I’d only just met. They didn’t understand.
I met Amy and it was game over. I knew that she was the woman for me, and it wouldn’t matter if I dated a hundred women and waited until I was turning gray to tie the knot—I’d never find anyone as perfect for me.
Amy was my person.
I know that ten months is not a lot of time to embed a face in a man’s mind. Still, I hate myself for letting my memory of her fade. What was Amy’s favorite drink? What was her all-time favorite movie? Song? TV show? I can’t be sure.
No matter how much I wrack my brain, there are small things I can’t pull from the dark corners of the past. The time we spent learning each other. Loving one another.
And I can’t forgive myself for betraying her like that. Losing knowledge of her—her smell, the sound of her laugh, the feel of her hand in mine—that is surely a betrayal.
How can I betray the woman who sacrificed her life to bring our child into the world?
So.
Much.
Pain.
I fall back onto the bed, flip onto my stomach, and grab a pillow. Then I punch the shit out of it. Because there is one thing I will never forget about Amy, never forgive myself for.
I am responsible for her death.
At her regular obstetrics appointment, the doctor found that her blood pressure was slightly elevated. I didn’t much care for her doctor’s casual attitude. In fact, I pressed him on his lack of concern. I wanted a second opinion. But Amy trusted him and asked me to please trust him too.
I failed her. I didn’t take Amy to another doctor or to the hospital. Looking back, I know what a good husband would have done. That man would have burned rubber out of the doctor’s office parking lot and hauled ass directly to the emergency room.
Not me. All I did was ask the doctor for an extra follow-up appointment before her regularly scheduled checkup a month later. He said it wasn’t necessary.
He was right.
Amy didn’t make it to that checkup.
She was already dead.
As the doctors and nurses wheeled her down the hall for an emergency Cesarean section, I ran by her side, grabbing her hand and kissing it. I told her she would be fine. That I loved her with all my heart and couldn’t wait to meet our son.
Her eyes filled with tears as the light faded from her gaze. It took every bit of her remaining energy to gently shake her head and speak her last words: “I’m so sorry.”
I punch my pillow again with the flood of rage, guilt, and grief that’s had a stranglehold on me for eight years. A grief so intense that it will last for the rest of my days.
Amy didn’t get to meet Jasmine. Our daughter was pulled from her lifeless body.
In one instant, everything changed for me.
I remember holding out my arms as a kind nurse handed me my baby. Then a doctor I’d never met stood next to me. In a gentle voice, she broke the news about my wife.
That was when two absolute truths were born and took up the center of my world: I had failed Amy, but I would never, ever fail Jasmine.
I remember looking into that tiny scrunched-up face and swearing that I would protect her forever. I would follow my gut when it came to her well-being. I would die for her.
And here I am, bringing a stranger into our home, getting her settled in the guest room right down the hall.
I have no reason to suspect that Emma is a physical threat to me or my daughter, but she’s a threat, nonetheless.
In my heart, I already know it.