It doesn’t turn on when it’s upside down.
Bathroom. Closet. Hide.
Which one?
Jessica’s still barking.
Oh my god.
What if they hurt the dog?
What if theyhurt the dog?
“Getoff, you mangy asshole,” a voice says downstairs. “Christ on a karaoke machine, why aren’t you in your goddamn crate?”
Jessica’s still growling, but the voice makes me stop.
I can hear it sayingokayin my head.
“Holt?” I shriek.
“Fuck me,” he mutters back.
Maybe notmutters.
If he were muttering, I couldn’t hear him.
But what in the holy hell is he doing here? He’s not supposed to be here for another three weeks.
I fumble my phone upright and open it to the phone app, ready to call for help if this isn’t Holt, if it’s someone who sounds like him and knows Jessica was supposed to be sleeping in a crate, and I creep to the bedroom door. The bedroom that Holt told me to use—the primary suite—is at the top of the landing, so I can flip on the lights and peer out, then duck back into my room if I have to.
My heart is trying to outpace a cheetah racing after a gazelle. My hands are shaking. My stomach hurts like I’m going to hurl.
I flip the light switch, lean out just far enough to look down the steps, and my racing heart skids to a full and complete stop, which makes my stomach flip inside out too.
That’s definitely Holt.
Same dark hair. Same broody, hooded eyes. Same chin dimple.
The thing that’s different?
The crutches under his armpits and the boot on his lower right leg.
I gape for half a second, a whirlwind of emotions flooding me. “What happened?”
He boosts himself up a single stair. “Don’t want to talk about it.”
“You didn’t call. Or text.”
“Been busy.”
“Airplanes have basic text service.” Deep breaths.Deep breaths.
He doesn’t answer while he uses the crutches to get up one more stair while Jessica trails him, still growling.
My heart won’t stop pounding. “I thought someone was breaking into the house in the middle of the night.”
“Just me.”
