On the way back to my apartment I was in a state of suspended disbelief. We’d just been there a few hours ago. How could someone break in by nightfall? Well, it didn’t take a long period of time to do so, but still. I just couldn’t believe it, especially after what had just happened.
Dad and my brother followed us, and when we arrived, there was a police cruiser in front of the Victorian. So was a familiar mustang—cherry red.
“Roxy!” Reece shouted as he coasted into park.
But I’d already had the truck door open and sprung out of the truck, his curse haunting my steps as I entered the courtyard of the Victorian. I caught a glimpse of Kip standing on the porch, along with James’s fiancée, but I was focused on one person.
Henry Williams stood there at the steps, talking to an officer. He turned as I approached him, his eyes widening. “Roxy—
“It’s you! Isn’t it? You were in my place while I slept and then you come back, and break in?” My hands balled into fists. It suddenly made so much sense to me. What was happening to me had nothing to do with the other girls. Nothing weird started happening until Henry got out of jail. “How are you getting in my place?”
He shook his head as he backed up, looking between the officer and me. “I swear I had nothing to do with this. I didn’t break into your place. I don’t even know what you’re—”
“You’re a sick fuck!” I shouted. “What is wrong with you? Why—”
“Whoa.” An arm circled my waist, and the next thing I knew, I was facing the street as my dad and brother passed us. Reece spoke in my ear. “You need to calm down, Roxy. We don’t know if he—”
“Who else would do it?” I shouted, wanting to swing my elbow into his stomach again. I couldn’t deal if Reece defended him. To me, it was so obvious. I wiggled around so I was facing Henry again. “Why else would you be here?”
“I came over to talk to you, but when I knocked on your front door, it opened and I saw the inside of your place. I called the police.”
“Oh, that’s such bullshit,” I spat.
“Roxy,” Reece warned softly.
“He did call us,” the officer confirmed. “And he claims he didn’t go all the way in. We also spoke to the gentleman on the porch. He didn’t hear anything suspicious, but had left the house for a few hours.”
It was then when I realized my dad and brother had gone into my place and had returned. Dad came down the steps, his cheeks flushed with anger. “I don’t want her seeing that.”
Now, of course I had to see it. “Let me go.” When Reece didn’t, I felt that I was seconds from my head spinning right off, Exorcist style. “Let me go, Reece. I mean it.”
“Listen to me, honey. Let Reece and me handle this,” Dad reasoned with his hands planted on his hips. “Gordon will take you back to our place or to Reece’s, but you really don’t want to see in there. Not right now.”
“What I want is to be put down and I want to see what happened inside my place,” I said, barely in control. “I am not fifteen years old. I’m a freaking adult. Seriously.”
Dad looked away, scrunching his fingers through his hair. Then he turned to my brother, who looked just as furious as I felt, and said something too low for me to hear.
“You’re not going to hit anyone, are you?” Reece asked. “If I let go?”
Henry cast his gaze to the ground while I sneered. “Only if you don’t let me go.”
“Be nice,” he ordered right before he loosened his hold.
I slipped free, stalking around my dad and dodging my brother’s hand as I climbed the steps.
“You might want to wait,” Kip suggested from where he stood in front of the Silvers’ door. He stepped toward me, but stopped when Reece jogged up the porch steps.
I stepped inside my apartment and then came to a complete standstill. My eyes had to be messing with me. There was no way this was my place. No way was my apartment full of police taking pics and dusting for prints.
The TV had been knocked to the floor, the screen shattered in large shards. The coffee table and end stand, both hand painted by me, looked like someone had gone Hulk on them, smashing the secondhand pieces until the legs were broken off. Both the couch and the recliner were flipped upside down. From where I stood, I could see that my small kitchen set was in one piece but also knocked over.
My heart pounded as anger pumped through me. Hands clenched, I headed down the hall. The bedroom was a mess. The comforter and sheets stripped, piled on the floor. All my bottles of lotion and perfume were scattered.
Spinning around, I almost knocked into Reece. He reached for me, but I sidestepped him and walked into my studio.
My heart broke.
“Oh my God,” I whispered, pressing the palm of my hand against my chest as I stared into the room.
Thank God Reece had taken my easel and canvas earlier, along with my paints, because everything else in the room had been utterly destroyed. All of the paintings I’d done, even the ones of Reece I’d hidden in the closet, were torn into unrecognizable shreds. It was like rage had exploded in the room.
I shuddered. “My . . . all my stuff.”
“I’m sorry.” Reece came up behind me, wrapping an arm under my chest and drawing me to his front. His other arm came around, securing me against him. “I wish there was something I could say that could make this better for you.”
Part of me wanted to pull away and start kicking stuff. “I don’t understand.”
His embrace tightened and for a few moments, he just held me and that . . . that helped more than I thought it could, but I thought about who was waiting outside. “It has to be Henry.” Anger resurfaced, pushing away the horror and the numbness of seeing my things destroyed. I turned in his arms, meeting his gaze. “It has to be him. Who else?”
He wet his bottom lip. “Roxy—”
“Are you seriously going to defend him? For real? I mean, none of this stuff happened until he conveniently shows up. Then he’s here, innocently knocks on my door and finds it already open? I mean, come on.”
Reece dropped his arms. “I really don’t think it’s him.”
Shaking my head, I stepped away. “It’s obvious!”
“Why would he break into your place and then call the police?” he threw out with an even, patient voice.
“Because he’s a sociopath?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Babe, the man made some shitty choices when he was a teenager and he paid for them—he’s still paying for them—and I don’t appreciate him showing up here unannounced, but that doesn’t make him a sociopath.”
My mouth dropped opened. “You’re seriously defending him?”
“No. He’s a jackass. Just not a sociopath.”
Disbelief thundered through me.
“He’s not defending what he did six years ago, honey.” Dad appeared in the doorway. “He’s just pointing out that it doesn’t make sense for Henry to do this and then call the police.”
I threw my hands up. “Did it make sense when he threw the rock and nearly killed Charlie?”
“Babe, this has nothing to do with Charlie.”
I was about to spit fire. “How do you know? Maybe he—”
“I’ve talked to him,” Reece continued, and effectively shutting me up by doing so. I gaped at him. “I’ve had real long talks with him.”
“What?” I whispered.
Reece glanced at my dad and then his gaze settled on me. He stepped closer. Brave man, because I was pretty sure my expression said I was about to cut him. “After the first time he tried to make contact with you, I had a chat with him to make sure he wasn’t going to cause you any trouble.”
“Good man.” My father clapped him on the shoulder, and I shot him a look. Seriously? “What?” he replied. “Reece was looking out for you.”
I crossed my arms.
“By saying this, I’m not forgetting what he’d done to Charlie. Henry hasn’t forgotten that either. That man is carrying around a load of guilt,” Reece said, and the tone of his voice said he had a lot of experience with that. “And he isn’t looking for forgiveness. He’s looking to somehow make amends. Two different things, babe, and breaking into your place, messing with you like this, serves no purpose.”
For a real long moment, I had no idea how to respond. Caught between fury and shock, I didn’t know what to make of the sense of betrayal coursing through me. All at once I was just . . . done with it all. Exhausted to the marrow, my shoulders slumped.
I turned away, surveying the damage. “I got to clean this up.”
A moment passed and Reece touched my shoulder. “We’re going to talk about this later.”
“Whatever,” I murmured, stepping away and picking up a piece of torn canvas. Holding it close, I sucked in an unsteady breath. The blue was the same color of Reece’s eyes, and I could make out the thin black lines that radiated out from the pupil. I didn’t know what to think as I realized that someone had found my creepy stash of Reece paintings.
Though, whatever I felt didn’t compare to how violating and scary it was knowing someone had gotten in here again and had done this—done something so violent and out of control.
We cleaned up as much as we could, and tomorrow, I’d have to call my insurance company. Luckily, I had renter’s insurance, so it would cover what was damaged and could be replaced.
A lot of the paintings and secondhand stuff couldn’t be, though, but I knew it could’ve been worse. Nothing had been stolen, and in the end, my place was just a mess.
Thomas offered to come back over with me tomorrow to finish up, something that Reece announced—did not ask—that he would also tag along for. I didn’t protest, because the last thing I wanted was to do it by myself.
Henry had left by the time I’d stepped outside again and that was a good thing. While I’d calmed down and could see a little bit of Reece’s logic, I was still fired up about the fact that he had the balls to come to my place and I wasn’t entirely convinced that it hadn’t been Henry. To me, it made more sense than some random guy stalking me.
It was late when we got back to Reece’s condo, and I had toyed around with the idea of staying with my parents instead, but if I was going to be honest with myself—and what fun was that?—I wanted to stay with Reece.
“Want something to drink?” Reece asked, dropping the keys on the kitchen counter. They rattled like wind chimes crashing to the floor.
“Sure.”
“Tea? Soda? Beer?”
“Beer. I could use some beer.”
One side of his lips turned up as he grabbed two Coronas out of the fridge and popped the tops before handing one to me. “Sorry, no lime.”
“Thanks. I really don’t like lime in my drinks anyway.” Taking a sip, I turned away. Though it was almost midnight, I wasn’t ready to sleep. Exhaling loudly, I walked over to the balcony doors. “Do you mind?”
He arched his brow. “Babe, make yourself at home.”
“I always thought that was such a weird thing to say. Why would you want people to make themselves at home in your house?” I pulled the curtain back and unlocked the doors. “If people did, they’d be running around your place naked.”
“If it’s you, I wouldn’t mind at all.” He grinned over the neck of his bottle. “Actually, I’d prefer it.”
“Pervert,” I muttered, and then stepped out into the cool night air.
Sitting in a chair, I tucked my legs up. A couple of minutes passed before Reece joined me. He was barefoot as he kicked his legs up on the railing. I don’t know why, but I thought the combination of jeans and bare feet were sexy.
There was also a good chance I just found a lot of things sexy.
We sat there in silence for a couple of moments, and I was struck by the similarity between what we were doing and what my parents did almost every night when they thought the kids were in bed.
They’d sneak outside to have a beer and some time together.
I glanced down at my bottle and toyed with the label. My heart rate kicked up a little, because this—this felt so very real and that . . . wow, that scared me.
Needing to distract myself, I asked, “Do you really think Henry has nothing to do with what’s been happening?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Ugh.
“I know you don’t like the fact I talked to him. It wasn’t like we were having drinks. I wanted to make sure you were safe from him,” he explained. “And like I said, wanting to make amends doesn’t make up for what he did, but isn’t feeling remorse for one’s own actions better than having none?”
I frowned as I mulled that over. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Guess so?”
“I mean, how do you really know if someone feels remorse? Or guilt? Or if it’s just because they got caught and are in trouble?”
“You know, I saw a lot of messed-up shit when I was in the sandbox,” Reece said, jarring me with the unexpected comment. “I saw what happened when someone got hit by an IED. I saw bodies of guys I considered friends riddled with bullets, some losing their legs or arms—their lives. I saw people who when it was all said and done didn’t have much of anything to ship back to their families. You kind of get used to it—the anger every time your group loses someone. Doesn’t make it easier, but you’re at war. I guess that helps you compartmentalize the shit that’s going down, what you got to do to make sure everyone survives.”
He paused, taking a long swallow. “When I left the academy and started working here, I thought I could do the same. Compartmentalize the bullshit, the annoying traffic stops and the domestics at the same house every Friday, and the god-awful traffic accidents, the senseless overdoses, and dumbass-on-dumbass violence. Packed that shit away where it belongs. I was doing it. So I thought having to shoot someone would be no different from being at war or just doing my job. I was wrong.”
I lowered the bottle to my lap, shocked into silence. He was talking about the shooting. Reece never talked about the shooting. I didn’t dare to breathe too loudly for fear of him stopping.
“It was a normal call. A fight outside of Spades Bar and Grill. I got there at the same time as another officer did. The fight was in the parking lot, and it took us a few to make it through the crowd.” He shook his head slowly. “The kid—his name was Drew Walker. Only eighteen. He was beating the shit out of an older guy. To the point that when we got there, the dude was knocked the fuck out. You know, he had a broken jaw, shattered nose, and eye. A cracked skull. That’s what that kid did to him.”
Reece tipped his bottle away from him, eyeing the label with a look of concentration. “He was on meth and some kind of other fucked-up drug. We yelled at him to stop and when he did . . . man, he was covered in blood. Like something straight out of a horror film. The kid had a gun. He had a gun the entire time. That’s what he was beating the guy with. Not his fists. The handle of the Glock.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered. Recalling the details the press had reported on the shooting, that part had either been glossed over or never told.
He pursed his lips. “Instinct. The second he aimed that gun, it was instinct. Both of us fired, but it was my shot that killed him—my bullet from my gun that did it was what the investigation showed.”
I opened my mouth, but I didn’t know what to say.
“I had to go face-to-face with that boy’s mom. She smacked me. Not once.” He laughed, but there was no humor. “Twice. She just didn’t understand. He damn near killed the guy he was beating and he was on a crazy combination of drugs. I don’t blame her, though, for hating me. And she does. Still does. Always will. He was her son. I get that, but man, it’s not like overseas. You don’t see family members then. You aren’t staring them in the eyes.”
My chest ached for him—ached for the whole situation. I got the what-ifs that surrounded the incident. What if the boy hadn’t been on drugs? What if he hadn’t gotten into the fight? What if it had been the other officer’s bullet? I’d asked myself those kinds of questions a thousand times. What if I hadn’t dragged Charlie to the football game so I could catch a glimpse of Reece? What if we had decided to stay the entire game? What if I had simply walked away and not gotten into it with Henry?
“There was a lot of anger.” He looked at me then and sighed. “A lot. Like why was I the one who got the call? Why was it my bullet? Did I make the right decision? Was there something else that could’ve been done?”
“You did what you were supposed to do,” I told him, believing every single word.
A small smile appeared. “Whenever there’s an officer-involved shooting, there’s always an investigation. I was cleared of any wrongdoing, but that doesn’t make it easier, knowing you took a life of a kid who wasn’t even old enough to buy this beer I’m drinking.” He raised his bottle to that and then said, “Because doing the right thing isn’t always the . . . well, the easiest thing to live with. Living with that kind of anger and guilt is a bitter combination.”
Boy, didn’t I know that. I took a sip of my beer. I knew there was very little I could say that would make a huge difference, but I said what I thought was true. “You are not a bad person, Reece. What you had to do was hard and he was a kid, but—”
“But it happened, babe. It was something that I had to deal with—still dealing with, so I know it when I see it.”
I tensed.
“I see it when I talk to Henry. And I see it in you, but Roxy, you’ve got no ownership to that. You understand that?”
I nodded, mainly because it was hard to explain why I felt such guilt over Charlie. “I’m glad you talked to me about what happened,” I said after a couple of moments. “I know it’s not easy to talk about.”
“It’s not. So you know that door is two-way, right?”
I raised my brows.
“I know there’s stuff you’ve got that isn’t easy to talk about, but you need to try, and when you do, I’ll be here.” He pulled his feet off the railing and stood. “Want another beer?”
Blinking, I glanced down at my almost empty beer. “Sure.”
As he moved to go back inside, he stopped beside me and curled his fingers under my chin. Tilting my head back, he dipped down and kissed me like he had all the time in the world. Slowly at first, just a brushing of his mouth against mine, and then deeper, parting my lips with his tongue. It wasn’t just a kiss. Not when his tongue danced over mine or the way he tasted me. Reece turned kissing into an art form, and if I had to attach a color to it, to get it on canvas, it would be supple shades of reds and purples.
I was still dazed from the kiss when Reece returned with more beer. We ended up talking into the wee hours of the morning, sometimes about nothing important, and after about the third beer, the conversation got a little more serious. I might have admitted to locking my younger brother in a chest once. Then I admitted that I hated taking the design classes in college. “The guys are freaking snots to deal with,” I told him. “Like you need a dick to know code or work in design, when in reality, any thirteen-year-old with a computer can design a decent website.”
Reece frowned over at me. “Then why do you do it? It’s a serious question.”
I shrugged. “I should get a degree.”
“You should do what you want.”
“It is what I want.”
He snorted. “Whatever.”
I stuck my tongue out, and he laughed, which made me smile, because I really liked the sound of his laugh. As I watched him finish off his beer, I thought about what he shared with me tonight. It made sense why he was able to look at everything objectively when it came to Henry. Didn’t mean I agreed, but I got where he was coming from.
“How did you finally let go of the anger, Reece?” I asked.
One shoulder rose. “Do you ever really let go of that? Completely? The anger and guilt? Nah. I think it cuts deep enough that it leaves scars that don’t heal. You just learn how to manage before you hit rock bottom with it.”
“And have . . . have you hit rock bottom with it?”
A long time passed before I realized he wasn’t going to answer that question. Maybe because he didn’t know the answer. Reece looked away, his jaw flexing as he stared into the woods, seemingly at nothing. Silence descended, and I knew deep down there was something he wasn’t sharing with me. Something he didn’t want me to know.