Motor heads down the porch steps, claws clacking against the wooden slats, and I follow. Standing in the small garden, I look around. The breeze sweeps across me, and I run my fingers through my hair, holding back a shiver.
What am I expecting? Asher to walk out of the trees and say it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding? That somehow, he survived, but he had to wait until he could tell me?
“Asher?” I whisper.
He’s dead, Ella.
But maybe he’s not.
He is, sweetheart.
But maybe …
“Asher, I’m still here,” I say, louder this time, my voice cracking. I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. “Please tell me if you’re here.”
I wait. Like a fool, I wait for a voice that will never come. I wait for words that will never materialize, because the man I need to hear them from is gone.
I watched his coffin get lowered. I stood at his graveside, alone, because murderers don’t get warm words or kind eulogies. I waited, hoping that maybe Hunter would show and give me news about Gable, but he never did. The sun dipped. The air chilled. Even when darkness fell, I stayed by Asher’s grave. The cold had nipped at me. It had rained. I had sat on the grass and stared at the dirt.
I visited every day for Gable.
I put down orchids and lavender.
Yes, I know for sure that Asher Flynn is dead.
So why am I standing here, waiting?
Motor sits, head tilted, eyes still on the trees, and my phone rings. Dragging my gaze from the darkness, I answer.
“Hey, baby. How are you doing?”
I try to sound chirpy. “I’m good; we’re just on the porch.”
“It’s cold outside,” my dad says. “Go in and get warm.”
Motor follows me in, and I lock the door.
“Should I come home?” he asks. “You sound off.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m honestly okay.”
It’s my dad’s first work trip away since this all started, and he’s already called me three times today.
“You know you can call me or the station?—”
“Dad, you have an officer circling the block,”I say. “I’ve got everything I need. And besides, Motor will protect me, won’t you?”
Motor climbs onto the couch, looking sullen.
“That dog can’t protect his food bowl,” he says. “We should take him to a vet and see if he’s okay.”
“We will.” I lie on the couch, resting my feet near Motor’s belly. “He’s just a little blue.”
“I think you both are,” he says softly.
I squeeze my eyes closed. I’ve never divulged to my dad just how much I cared for Asher, but it’s clear from my reaction to his death. I’m heartbroken. Grief-stricken. Over a man who hurt so many people. It makes no sense, least of all to my dad, but he still treats it the same as any other heartache that I’ve gone through. He tries too hard, he cooks too much, and he holds me when I cry.
“I’m home the day after tomorrow,” he says. “But if you need me home right now, you tell me.”
