Chapter Three
Rosalie
I dream of her. Of us.
Of two broken girls whose fate seemed to interweave in the cruelest of ways.
We met at a funeral home of all places. One mourning the death of her parents and the other saying goodbye to her aunt, the only family she’d ever known.
Both alone in the world. There’d been something familiar, a shared sorrow when we ran into each other in the hallway.
A friendship bloomed that day, and suddenly, neither of us was alone. We became friends, then roommates and coworkers. Then we became sisters. Family.
“Kristin!”
It’s her name on my lips when I wake up with a start, my head pounding as I look around, trying to catch my bearings. Hoping more than anything that I’ll see the familiar purple walls of my bedroom and that somehow, the whole ordeal will just be a terrible nightmare, but it’s not.
I’m not in my tiny bedroom. I’m in Beau Donovan’s guest room because going home wasn’t safe, not while Leopold has my ID and knows where to find me. Not when I had nowhere else to go.
God!
I run a hand through my hair and push it back from my face, fighting the tears that cloud my vision. I close my eyes and inhale through my mouth, pushing down the panic that threatens to choke me.
She’s okay. They’ll find her. She’ll be okay.
I force myself off the bed, dragging my feet to the bathroom as I repeat the words in my head like a mantra, wanting so desperately to believe them. Fighting the guilt that I’m here in the safety of a former police officer’s home while my best friend is God knows where.
She’s okay. They’ll find her.
The hot shower I take does little to help with the grogginess I feel, and I’m sluggish as I drag on the jeans I wore yesterday, wincing at my sore knee when I tug them on.
I shove on the hoodie Beau lent me last night before walking out of the room.
I need to know if the cops have any news.
If they found the asshole who tricked Kristin, then maybe they know where she is.
I head downstairs and follow the scent of coffee to the kitchen, and then I see him, bathed in the soft golden light filtering through the kitchen window, and he looks...
It should be impossible for someone to look as perfect as he does with the morning sun casting low shadows and highlighting every rugged angle of his face. I’m mesmerized, utterly speechless as I watch the way the sunlight plays on his skin.
He’s standing behind the kitchen counter, his tall, muscular frame filling out the shirt rolled at the sleeves.
The light catches the subtle waves in his dark brown hair, cut short on the sides but longer on top.
His beard is long and full, framing a strong jawline that gives his handsome face a rugged charm.
His gaze lifts to mine, light green eyes that seem even more striking in the morning glow. They hold a depth, a warmth that I could get lost in forever. My heart does a little flip, a flutter so unfamiliar that it gives me a start.
“Good morning.” His voice is deep, rough like gravel, and it calls to something inside of me that I quickly push back.
“Morning,” I force out, stepping into the room and walking to the opposite side of the counter. “Um, did you hear anything? Did they find her?”
My face falls when I catch the look in his eyes. He doesn’t need to say anything, not with the pity written there. “I’m sorry,” he says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “The cops are still looking into it. They found the trailer, but the man had already left.”
It’s not like I didn’t expect it. Heck, the cop who took my statement last night warned me that Leopold could’ve gone into hiding, but hearing they found nothing crushes me. “Will they ever find her?” I ask, brokenly, even as tears threaten to spill. “If the man left, then—”
“Hey.” I nearly jump when a hand covers mine.
The tears spill, clearing my vision when I look at the massive hand touching me, so large and strong against my small one.
“The cops are doing everything they can. I promise you that.” His eyes, when I glance up, give me a little more confidence in his words.
“Right now, however, you need to worry about yourself, Rosalie.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my brows furrowing with confusion.
“You still can’t go home. Not yet. Not while the men who took Kristin are still out there.”
I bite into my lip when it trembles, hating how our lives are falling apart right when we were getting a handle on things. Kristin and I made our little house our home, and the thought of someone breaking in feels like a violation of our little haven.
“I could get new locks,” I suggest, brushing my fingers over my wet cheeks. “Maybe if I change the locks, then—”
“It’s not going to keep them out, Rosalie. You know this.”
“It’s our home.”
“I’m sorry.” His hand squeezes mine. “I’ll drive you home so you can grab what you need for a few days. After that, we’ll figure out somewhere safe for you to stay until they catch Leopold and whoever he’s working with, and find your friend. It’ll be okay.”
It won’t. Even he can’t possibly believe that. Nothing will ever be the same again. Not for me, and definitely not for Kristin when they find her. But we’ll try, won’t we? We can start over again. We’ve done it before. We’ll just have to do it again.
“Alright,” I say, sniffing back the tears. “I’ll move into a motel.” It’ll eat up my meager savings, but I’ll worry about it later.
Breakfast happens in silence between us.
I don’t have much of an appetite, but I manage to choke down a few bites of omelet and drink half a glass of orange juice before I decide it’s all I’m going to eat.
Beau doesn’t comment on my lack of appetite, and when we leave, I’m surprised that he takes a dog with us.
“Ares, right?” I ask when the large Belgian Malinois jumps onto the back seat. “Named after the Greek god of war. Violent, savage, and very dangerous.” I turn to Beau when I say the last word, and I suspect that the owner is in every way as dangerous as his dog.
“You remember their names after a single introduction,” Beau comments as he climbs into the driver’s seat.
“It’s easy enough to remember Ares, he’s the only Belgian Malinois,” I point out as he starts the engine.
“The other three are German shepherds. The female one is Athena, named after the Greek goddess of wisdom and strategic warfare.. The two males, Zeus and Hermes, named after the king of the gods and the messenger of gods, are a little hard to tell apart.”
“You seem pretty knowledgeable about the Greek gods.”
“Oh, I spent a lot of time in the library growing up. My parents couldn’t afford to hire a babysitter when I was younger, so they would drop me off at the library on the weekends with a packed lunch and pick me up at the end of the day.
I had a whole phase in middle school when I was obsessed with Greek mythology.
” I reach back and brush a hand through Ares’s fur.
“Why did you name them after the Greek gods?”
“It’s symbolic,” he says, surprising me with his answer. “It represents qualities and—”
“Immortalizes them, in a sense.”
His eyes briefly find mine, surprise flickering in them.
There’s something else too, but it’s gone before I can make sense of it.
It’s odd, finding understanding in the eyes of a man I wouldn’t think I’d have anything in common with.
But when I look into those green eyes, I see loss.
The need to make someone or something feel permanent.
But nothing lasts forever.
The thought becomes more evident when we reach the small house my parents left me, the one Kristin and I have shared for nearly two years.
The couch we saved for months to buy has been torn to shreds and the TV smashed.
Those pretty flowers she Kristin loves have been knocked over, the vase broken.
Our peaceful little corner of the earth, our safe haven, violated.
“Fuck!” Beau curses as he shoves into rooms, opening and closing the doors to make sure the house is empty. “They moved faster than I expected.”
“They ruined everything,” I say with a sob, reaching down to hug Ares when he nudges my knee. “They destroyed our home.”
“We’ll make them pay.” I lift my face from Ares’s fur at the anger in Beau’s voice.
His jaw is clenched, and those perfectly curved lips are pressed tightly together.
Just then, he looks every bit as dangerous as the god of war his dog is named after.
“Pack everything you need. I’m not taking you to a fucking motel. You’re coming back home with me.”
***
It felt like another violation.
Watching all those cops walk through our little house, stepping all over the pretty rug that Kristin and I bought at a yard sale. All those strangers in our little space, photographing damage, dusting for fingerprints, and recording statements.
Gathering evidence, they called it. Our little sanctuary was now a crime scene.
I didn’t think there were any more tears left to spill, and I was worn down, body and soul, when we finally made it back to Beau’s house.
That was hours ago. Several hours since I locked myself in his guest room, watching the sun change its position through his floor-to-ceiling windows, thinking about my best friend.
Worrying about her. Hating myself for being safe in this fortress of a home while my friend is locked up God knows where.
I hate it.
Hate that I wasn’t with her when she left yesterday afternoon. That I didn’t try harder to stop her or call her sooner to make sure she was alright.
Christ.
I don’t come out for lunch or dinner, and Beau, sensing my need to be left alone, keeps his distance.
Long after the sun has set, I remain seated on the bed, staring into space.
There are movements downstairs, the whining of a dog outside my door, but I make no move to come out.
I stay rooted in place, lost in thought, and after a while, I catch the soft paddle of paws as they leave the spot outside my door.