Against the back wall, an open shelving unit straddled a mini fridge. Genevieve had imported a microwave, a two-burner hot plate, an electric teakettle, a toaster, and a tiny free-standing butcher block. She’d stocked plates, cups, utensils, and food, if you could call Jelly Belly jelly beans, a loaf of sliced white bread, and instant porridge food. He did not.
He set his hands on his hips. Without intending to, he’d acquired a tenant.
He’d found no Oxy, so he let himself out of the guesthouse. An Adirondack chair, footstool, and side table sat on the small porch. A throw pillow decorated the chair. He rolled his eyes. Another throw pillow.
He walked down to the pond and stood at its edge.
As a kid, his desire to belong had made him soft. When he was eight, he’d given his lunch to Nico Mallory five days in a row in hopes that doing so would buy Nico’s friendship. He hadn’t realized that Nico kept eating his lunch because Nico and his buddies thought it was funny.
When he was ten, he’d given Aaron Schuman his school supplies.
When he was sixteen, he’d given Elijah Moore his jacket.
When he was twenty-three, he’d given Kayden Westcott his heart.
He’d stupidly placed his trust in too many lost causes over the years.
He was now honor bound to do what he could to make sure Genevieve survived the coming week.
But he could never again place his trust in a lost cause.
Sebastian
The dark-haired kid pulls me into a room with a Black kid and a blond girl. I wrench my arm from his hold. Just as I do, the floor tilts.
The dark-haired kid disappears into the hallway.
The ground shakes and shakes. Metal bends. Glass shatters. Chunks of ceiling crash to the floor.
I’m desperate for it to stop.Stop!
The terrified boy and girl are staring at me. Why? They don’t know me, and I definitely don’t know them.
I never wanted to come on this idiot mission trip with these stupid people. My foster parents made me. When I die here with these strangers, they’ll be sorry.
Chapter Four
Genevieve considered death an imminent likelihood.
With every passing hour of withdrawal, that likelihood became more and more welcome.
A day had passed since she’d finished moving into the cottage, and she was lying in bed, shaking and sweating. She didn’t know whether to throw the blankets off or pull them tighter, but she was convinced neither would help.
Nausea and vomiting had overtaken her body. Terrible stomach pain. A fast, thumping heart rate.
Even harder to bear? The panic. When it gripped her, it gripped hard. More than once, she’d cried because she’d had no other outlet for her sorrow and terrified anxiety.
Squeezing shut her eyes, she pleaded with God to heal her body and remove her misery. But trying to find Him in the midst of this was like stretching her fingertips into darkness—straining to touch the thing she knew was there—and having her fingers rake nothing but empty air. The empty air had never been more harrowing than it was now, when she needed Him so desperately.
Maybe it was too much, to try to correct all her bad decisions with one mammoth step back in the right direction.
Yesterday she’d dumped all her pills into the trash along with the remains of the salad she’d eaten for lunch before driving to Sugar Maple Farm to talk with Sam.
How could she have been so foolishly confident? If she stillhad access to her pills, she’d have already taken some in order to minimize these symptoms.
Her doctor’s office in Nashville had closed for the day. At this point, she had no choice other than to endure the night until they reopened in the morning—
Loud knocking jolted a gasp from her.
