…and having these thoughts while my father fights for his life makes me feel like a terrible daughter.
But right now, that life feels a million miles away. This, here… I can live like this. In this cozy cabin, with its log walls and rustic kitchen and tiny bathroom. I don’t need tons of space or the luxuries I left behind in Brighton. Okay, maybe a dishwasher would be nice, but at least there’s a washer and dryer, so it’s not totally primitive living.
The shower has hot water, and the bed is warm and comfortable. A person can’t ask for more. I mean, I can. My phone would be nice if I could block all the noise that came with it, but Havoc was right to destroy my cell. Anyone could track me without the fancy anti-spyware downloaded into my phone to block prying eyes who take advantage of the government’s satellites. It’s become nearly impossible for the average citizen to hide from someone determined to find them.
I peek out the window and see nothing but wilderness. I’m oddly at peace rather than feeling a sense of panic at being alone. Havoc might call me a duchess, but I’m more at home here than I’ve ever felt in Brighton. Until I met Faith, I used to resent that my parents moved us out of the working-class city of Hempstead. But if we’d stayed there, I never would have gone to Saunders Hall University, where Faith and I met. I would never have found my way to Mayhem. I certainly never would have mustered the courage to talk to Havoc, and well…
Fate, I’ve found, has a way of stepping in and nudging people in the right direction.
Faith and I have always been perfectly imperfect best friends. At ten, an endocrinologist diagnosed her with type one diabetes. I was fourteen when we realized I have epilepsy. My neurologist expected me to grow out of my petit mal seizures. The joke was on her because my seizures stuck around. So, while I don’t suffer from grand mal, I do momentarily drift out of the moment. They never last longer than a few seconds. Sometimes I blink rapidly. Or smack my lips. Topamax, the anti-seizure medication I take, is usually enough to keep my brain firing correctly. As far as I’m aware, and according to my yearly electroencephalography—or as the test is commonly known, an EEG—I haven’t had one in ages.
Speaking of which…
In the chaos, I’d forgotten to take my medication. I rectify the problem by taking my morning dose of one hundred milligrams of Topamax from the stash I carry in my bag. Each day ends with another fifty milligrams before bed.
Havoc mentioned the windows are bullet resistant. That fun fact keeps the paranoia at bay as I move around the cabin to grab my pill bottle from my purse and walk to the kitchen for water. Almost involuntarily, my gaze drifts to the Glock on the table. Yes, thanks to my recent lessons with Jester, I know how to use it.
Summoning the fortitude to shoot someone is something else entirely.
Last night, I operated on pure adrenaline. Would I have the courage to point-blank shoot someone if they broke into the cabin? Without a doubt. I didn’t think I could run a person off the road until last night, but here I am. The last person standing.
After taking my medication, I place the pills in the cabinet above the sink and walk to the table. I run my finger along the smooth, black metal of the Glock. It’s heavy in my hand when I lift it. A comforting weight as I aim the weapon at the door, confident that, yes, I’m prepared to save my own life.
Again.
Does that make me a monster? No, because evil is the person who murdered Marcus and left my father for dead. It’s the sonofabitch who tried to kill me last night.
I set the gun back down and step away from the table. This is the first time I’ve been idle, and it feels…wrong. I always have something to do. I’m always busy. As much as I crave downtime, I don’t know how to be still now that I have it. Without my phone, there are no emails or messages to answer. I can’t tackle the usual thousand things I do in a day. Being off the grid, temporarily free of responsibility, leaves only the ever-present worry for my father to occupy my brain.
There’s not much to explore. Without Havoc to fill the space, the cabin feels empty. And I’m…lonely…and scared. Fear has me on edge as I finally dare to approach one of the windows. I push aside the dark green curtain. A spill of sunlight filters in through the thick glass. As much as I want to step outside and drag in a breath of fresh air, I drop the material back in place and walk backward. Away from the world.
Away from reality.
From my consequences.
My feet shuffle over the multicolored rope area rug, and I sink on the brown sofa. I’m tempted to pop a movie in the DVD player. Something mindless from the vast collection, meticulously arranged and organized on shelves surrounding the massive television. But I ultimately decide against it because I’ve never seen a remote control with so many buttons. My God, flying a plane seems more manageable than figuring out how to use this thing.
So, I’m on my feet again, every nerve charged as I pace the width of the cabin. From the fireplace to the kitchen and back again. Until this pattern grows old, and I walk in circles, doing laps around the room, wondering if my mother thinks I’m dead. Wishing I could be at my dad’s side. Hating this whole circumstance, but guilty at not finding the idea of isolation with Havoc awful.
Speaking of Havoc…
The rumble of a vehicle crunching over the dirt has me diving for the Glock. I race to the window and breathe a sigh of relief when Havoc’s Super Duty rolls to a stop near the front of the cabin. Leaving the weapon on the table, I throw open the door but don’t dare take a single step outside. Instead, I try to lighten Havoc’s load as he hefts the bags in the house.
He angles away from me, his arms loaded with bags, and snaps, “I got this.” I stand aside as he makes two more trips. On the final one, he nods at the door. “Lock it.” He drops the haul on the kitchen counter, and he immediately starts unpacking the groceries. “Jester brought you clothes and shoes. They’re in the truck. I’ll bring in the suitcase once we put this shit away.”
“Thank you.” And thank God. Although I appreciate Havoc sharing his things with me, I need clothes that fit. And those Louboutins won’t exactly do for mountain living. “Did you tell him about the Ralph Miller situation?”
“Yeah. The Unholy will take care of things.”
When he pulls more groceries out of a bag, I wait a full thirty seconds before I realize he’s finished talking.
His half-ass non-answer is unacceptable.
“Havoc, no. What else did Jester say?”
He stops what he’s doing and scowls at me as if I’m supposed to be intimidated. Which I am, obviously. He’s terrifying. Also, Havoc isn’t the type to explain himself. But poor him, because too bad. This ismyproblem, and Iwon’tbe shut out. And when I notch my chin and plant my hands on my hips, I do my best to match his glare, locking us in a silent battle of wills.
Finally, he grits his teeth, and a muscle tics in his jaw. “First, Jester is going to get word to your mother that you’re safe. He’s also going to search the area where you rammed the bastard who tried to run you off the road. While he’s busy doing that, the Unholy will go private investigator on your Ralph Miller. Better answer, Duchess?”
