“And you. I have you.”
I flatten my palm over his beating heart, pressing down so he can hopefully feel the warmth of me even through his jacket. I keep it there, holding steady like a promise. “Yes. You have me.”
“And you have me.”
“I have you.”
“And the cats.”
“We both have the cats. They didn’t even try and destroy your scrotum.”
He lets out a bark of surprised laughter. It’s exactly what we need to release the tension of one of the hardest and most beautiful moments of my life. “I’m very happy about that.”
I join in his laughter, then bite down on my bottom lip when it trembles, the tears back, threatening to spill. I can’t hold them back. I don’t have to. My emotions are all over the place, and that’sokay. I can want to be strong and still cry. I can tell this man I love him and feel absolutely weightless with the release of words that I’ve stored inside myself for so long that they’ve changed from mere language and mere emotion into priceless ore, and I can still feel the weight of everything I have to do pressing down on me.
It’s become so clear to me that I won’t have to face any of it alone. Part of loving someone is allowing them in and being welcomed in turn.
It’s no longer just me.
We have each other’s backs, but we also have each other’s hearts.
Chapter 23
Maverick
Loreena clings tightly to my arm while she crushes the shit out of my hand. She cocks her head to peek up at me, but with those massive dark sunglasses on that pretty much wrap around her whole face, I’m not sure how much she can see. She draws one shaky breath after another, sucking loudly and exhaling even louder, but she’sdoingit. I have never been prouder.
Or more angry.
She rings the bell, and I just stand there, shielding her with my body as much as possible, burning with a nearly unholy rage. I’ve tried not to. It’s been ten fucking days since I brought the news of Richard Cartwright’s death home to Loreena.
Nine days since she wrote to his mother, Miranda Cartwright.
Five days since she received a response.
Four since she phoned the woman and made plans for us to drive to Seattle and meet with her in person.
Here we are.Here we are.My hand curls into a tight fist. I shove it into the pocket of my leather jacket. Loreena is strong. She’s mighty. But me? I’m just a shithead who hasn’t completely given up on the notion of revenge. I know that Miranda is a near seventy year old woman. It was still her son who hurt someone I love, and if he’s no longer around to pay for his sins, then I’d like to heap them on her shoulders. I don’t care if that’s wrongor not. It’s what I think. I can’t change my mind. At least I’m honest about it. I’d follow Loreena anywhere and stand by her side through anything. She knows that.
This is what she wanted to do, and I’m here to help her see it through.
The doorbell has a stupid chime that sounds through the house. It’s pretty, little bells sing-songing happily. The whole house is cheerful. It’s in a neighborhood far from where I grew up, definitely on theright side of the tracks.It’s probably worth a million dollars or more. If this is where Richard Cartwright grew up, what the hell did he have to be so unhappy about?
Shuffling steps sound from inside.
I saw the response letter that Miranda sent back to Loreena. She appeared to be appalled, devastated, and truly sorry. I say appeared, because anyone can write anything they want. They can claim to be innocent. Loreena chose to give Miranda the benefit of the doubt, and when she invited us to her house and gave us her number, of course she called her to arrange a date.
Loreena has slept soundly every single night leading up to this. She’s asked me to take her for drives, making them longer and longer. She’s stepped outside for moments at a time with me hovering in the background, and these past few days, she’s even walked the entire block Scythe’s house is on and back with me holding onto her hand.
My heart is full to bursting for Loreena, but I don’t have to have an ounce of charity for Miranda or her son. If I believed in hell, I’d wish for him to burn there.
The door opens and pulls inward.
Loreena’s breath catches and even I do a doubletake.
If this is Miranda Cartwright, she’s not more than five feet tall. She looks like she’s a hundred and twenty years old, with sagging gray skin and purple grooves under her eyes. Her breathing rasps in and out of her lungs far worse than any panicked air that I’ve ever heard getting dragged in and pushed out of Loreena’s. She raises a hand that’s near skeletal and motions to us.
“I’m so glad that you’re here, Loreena. Please, come in.”
