I groaned, head rocking back on the top of the sofa, breath a hiss on my tongue.
Frankie and Rynna.
37
Rynna
Ipaced my kitchen.
I felt as if I were stuck in limbo.
A path set out ahead of me that I didn’t yet know how to take. Stuck in a purgatory of worry and jealousy and loss. A shimmery anger that lit up at the edges where it kept me enclosed.
Helpless.
And helpless was the last thing I wanted to be.
Milo was asleep on his bed in the corner, and I shuffled around in my kitchen, trying to distract myself from it. Maybe baking would give me a little clarity. Insight to the right decision. A calm in the midst of the worst kind of disturbance that still rattled my walls.
I tried to reject the shiver of unease that slipped down my spine, still unable to shake the idea that someone had been in my house when I was away.
Wondering if it was just me being foolish—jealous and petty and needy—or if the foolish part was me ignoring it.
Gramma had told me to always, always trust my gut.
But my guts were tied in one of those impossible knots. The kind where you couldn’t tell what was what, where one loop started and another ended.
“Gramma...I wish you were here. You would know what to do,” I murmured under my breath, pulling the ingredients for an apple pie from the pantry and refrigerator. Night pressed in at the window, the globe light on the ceiling a hazy hue of yellow that lit the dated kitchen.
I had just set everything on the counter when I stilled.
A prickle of awareness flashed up the nape of my neck. Though this was an entirely different kind of fear.
This was hope and excitement and the worst kind of confusion. Sucking in a breath, I took a step backward and craned my head out the arch and into the living room.
Listening.
Silence echoed back. But that silence was thick. Weighted. Heavy.
Like a tether was tied around my waist and anchored in my belly.
Drawing me closer.
I edged across the room, my footsteps subdued, my breaths shallow when I inched toward the door.
One solid knock rattled against it.
It rang out like a call.
A beckoning.
A plea.
My hand was trembling when I reached for the lock. Maybe it made me a fool, but I twisted it, anyway. The scrape of metal pierced the bottled quiet. For a flash, I squeezed my eyes closed before I turned the knob and pulled open the door.
He was there.
Standing on my deck.
