Chapter 22
Roman
Iwas going to hell.
I washed her hair for as long as possible before the water ran cold. I told myself it was because the smoke smell clung to her, that her bandages were already damp and I didn’t want her opening up her blisters.
The truth was, watching her unravel beneath my hands did something to me.
Her skin was flushed pink, her shoulders slack. All that constant hesitation and careful caution she carried around like armor had dissolved into nothing but pure pleasure.
It all made me ache for her in every way possible.
She was beautiful, completely open and soft. I wanted to keep her exactly like this—relaxed in my arms, as if she knew nothing bad would touch her while I was here.
She whimpered when I rinsed out the shampoo, realizing it was almost over.
I shushed her, not wanting to burst her bubble of contentment any earlier than necessary.
As I worked the conditioner through her hair, she melted again. My fingers slid through her slick, golden strands with almost no resistance.
Years of raising a daughter alone had taught me conditioner didn’t belong on the scalp, but I didn’t care. When my nails scraped lightly at her roots, Palmer sighed, her full lips parting in a way that nearly destroyed my restraint.
Fuck. Me.
I was so far gone when it came to her. When had that happened?
I combed my fingers through her hair again and again, nails grazing her scalp just enough to make her body react. Those soft little sounds she made—breathy, unguarded—were going to be the death of me.
When I finally forced myself to stop and rinsed out the last of the conditioner, her eyes drifted open.
She looked almost drunk. Heavy-lidded and flushed and dazed all at once.
She blinked up, and for a second, the world narrowed to just the two of us. Water dripped from her wet hair and steam clung to our skin. I nearly kissed her.
Instead, I grabbed the towel from beneath her head and carefully wrapped it around her hair, squeezing out the excess water.
She watched me as I worked, tracking every movement.
When her hair was no longer dripping, I dropped the towel.
“Done,” I said, waiting for her to raise her head and get to her feet.
She didn’t move. I arched an eyebrow.
“I’m…not sure if I can get up,” she admitted.
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I feel…like Jello.”
A slow grin pulled at my mouth before I could stop it. Satisfaction bloomed in my chest, dark and a little wild.
“So sensitive,” I murmured.
A deeper crimson crept across her cheeks. She gave me a small, embarrassed smile but didn’t argue.
I crouched down in front of her, still grinning. “Up you go.”
I slid my hands under her arms, and I pulled her gently to her feet.
She swayed a little on the spot. I caught her by the hips, steadying her until she found her balance. My hands lingered there longer than they should have.
I could pull her to me right now if I wanted to. I could lift her into my arms and carry her straight to that bed.
Would she let me? Would she want me to?
I swallowed and forced myself to step back before temptation overruled common sense.
“Come on,” I said roughly, taking her elbow instead of her waist. “We still need to change your bandages.”
Duty. Responsibility. They were the only things standing between me and losing my damn mind.
I walked her toward the sink. “Stay right here,” I told her. “I’ll be right back.”
She seemed curious, but she only nodded and then I stepped into her bedroom to grab the grocery bag I’d left on the bed.
I’d gone to the store after dropping Hailey off at school and picked up burn supplies—nonstick pads, ointment, and sterile gauze.
They were things I should have already had on hand.
When I returned to the bathroom, her gaze pinned me in place the second I crossed the threshold. It was ridiculous how quickly my body reacted to her presence—like I’d taken a full breath outside the room and now the air had thickened.
I set the bag down on the counter beside the sink and unpacked it. “I got a few more things for you.” I kept my tone even.
When I finished laying everything out, I turned to her. “Let me see your hands.”
She hesitated for a moment before holding them out for me.
I worked carefully, unwrapping the old bandages and inspecting the damage beneath. Her fingers were red but the blisters on her palms were shallow.
She had been lucky it wasn’t worse.
I cleaned each palm with careful precision, dried them, applied ointment, and began to rewrap them. My movements were steady and practiced. I’d treated worse injuries before; I’d had some EMT training, but something about tending to hers made my chest tight.
“So…these fires that have been happening,” she said, her voice cautious. “You think they’re arson?”
My hands stilled.
Technically, I shouldn’t discuss it. The investigation was ongoing, but I nodded anyway.
“Yes,” I answered. “At first, we thought it was a bored kid, setting fires to get attention. But then it escalated.”
I glanced up at her before returning my attention to her hands.
“The coffee shop was different.”
“And Hearthstone?” she asked.
Hearthstone.
The reminder of the ruined building twisted my stomach. “I have no idea why Hearthstone was a target.”
The lingering virus still had me feeling off, my brain slower than usual.
Palmer continued to ask questions, curious about details such as the other locations and times.
She sounded a bit like Skye, my brother’s investigative journalist fiancée, who always was digging deep into everything.
Part of me was glad she hadn’t been here to hound me about the fires.
I didn’t mind talking to Palmer about it, though.
She wouldn’t discuss it with anyone else if I asked her not to.
As I secured the final wrap around her palm, she went rigid.
“The church you mentioned…was it that Pentecostal church on Maple Street?”
I nodded and she paled.
“What’s wrong?”
She swallowed. “I-I’m not sure.”
She looked away, but I sensed something churning in her mind.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
She bit at her lip. “Well, I might be seeing something where it isn’t but…” she trailed off, unsure.
“Spit it out, Golden.”
The nickname slipped out before I could think about it. I’d said it in my fevered stupor the other night, but I found that it suited her. I might keep using it until she told me to stop.
She flushed. “Ever since I got here, I’ve been deep diving into everything I could get my hands on concerning the Shadow Stalker—Amos Anderson.”
His name alone sent a spike of rage through me.
“Anyway,” she continued, sounding breathless and hurried. “That church…didn’t he go there? I’m pretty sure he was involved with it for a time, and the coffee shop was owned by him until he was arrested.”
My throat constricted as an unsettling weight sat like a stone in my stomach.
“And Hearthstone,” she said, meeting my gaze. “Well, you said it yourself that he had some kind of fixation with your family, with your brothers.”
“You think Anderson has something to do with this?”
She shifted on her feet. “I don’t know. It’s the first thing that came to my mind after you named off all the locations like that…”
I didn’t want to believe it. How did it make sense that Anderson would return to Ember Hollow just to burn it down?
I studied her as I held her hands. The bandages were secured, but I didn’t want to let her go yet.
She licked her lips, and I knew she was holding something back.
“What else is there?” I asked.
She hesitated.
“Roman,” she whispered. “Phantom has been bringing me dead butterflies.”
My brow furrowed. “What?”
“Twice now,” she said. “Inside the house. I don’t know where he was getting them. I tried to excuse it, but maybe…”
The words settled between us, ominous somehow.
I took a step back without meaning to, dropping her hands.
“Cats bring in dead things all the time,” I said, trying not to get too carried away with this idea.
It was just an idea.
But my mind began to rearrange the pieces whether I wanted it to or not. A butterfly had been the Shadow Stalker’s signature—carved into the flesh of his victims. Now, dead butterflies were showing up in the house.
My pulse escalated with every second that passed. This all could have some other explanation. It could mean absolutely nothing.
But the more I tried to convince myself that it was meaningless, the more I doubted it.
I didn’t believe in coincidence.