5
Dax
Evianna’s subtle scent lingers in the conference room, though my fingers may never be the same. And I don’t understand why she said goodbye with such a hard edge to her voice.
As I head for the coffee machine—and my ill-advised third cup of the day—Ford’s footsteps creek on the hardwood floors. This building is ancient, like many in Boston, and being able to hear my team coming is one of the reasons I feel safest here.
“Clive’s following our new client back to her office,” he says as he pours himself a cup. “Want some?”
“Yeah. What do think about her…her case?”
“I wish we had Wren for this one,” he replies.
My phone vibrates at the same time as Ford’s. “New text message from Accounting. Subject: Evianna Archer,” the computerized female voice announces in my ear.
Removing my Bluetooth, I tuck the receiver into my pocket. “She pays on time. And I keep telling you. Wren’s not dead. She’s in Seattle. They have the internet there. Hell, she emailed me this morning asking when we’d have something for her. Pull her in so we can wrap this up quickly.”
“You don’t like our new client.” Ford follows me back to my office. “Why not?”
“She clearly doesn’t like me. That handshake was—” Ford starts laughing, and I arch a brow. “You didn’t think she was a little…confrontational at the end?”
With a final snort, Ford gets himself under control. “You’re wearing your glasses.”
“What’s that have to do with anything? I needed the camera in the damn things to read me her police report. And I’ve had a low level headache for three days. They help with the light sensitivity.”
“Look, I know you can’t see yourself, but your glasses hide a lot of the scarring. And how pale your eyes really are. Evianna smiled at you a couple of times. You didn’t respond. And when you held out your hand at the end? She was waiting for you to take hers. She doesn’t know you’re blind.”
“And I came across as a total jerk?” Pulling off my glasses, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Tension bands around my forehead, and I blow out a slow breath. “Shit.”
I want to ask Ford what she looks like. Something about her voice called to me. Soft, feminine, but with a hint of steel running through it. But she’s a client, and even if she weren’t...I’m too broken to expose anyone to my scars.
“I’ll explain when I talk to her,” he says, turning around so his voice echoes into the hall. “Clive’s going to handle everything until I can line up Ronan or Vasquez for the night shift. She didn’t want close contact. Those two know how to be unobtrusive.”
“Don’t.” Sinking down into my chair, I tighten my fingers around the handle of my mug. “Don’t tell her anything about me. It’s not important, and I don’t want anyone’s pity. She doesn’t have to like me. She’s a client. One I probably won’t talk to again.”
“Whatever you want.” Ford’s phone buzzes, and he swears under his breath. “Gotta take this, then I’m heading out. Catch you tomorrow.”
I almost ask him to wait. I have to call Ryker back today, and I’m not ready. But I don’t know what to say to the man who carried my broken, bleeding, and blind body out of the worst hell on earth, then helped me kill the asshole who put us there.
There’s more darkness inside me than anyone knows, and I need to keep as much of it hidden as I can.
I’ve put off going home as long as I can. Well after six, the office is quiet. Even Trevor abandoned his dark cave and left. The guy hates daylight. As I step through the building’s front door, the sounds of Boston comfort me. My vision might be limited to a dull haze, shadows and muted colors moving around me without context, but I can still savor the fresh air, the hum of traffic on my left, the scent of the pizza place on the corner.
With my cane sweeping back and forth across the sidewalk, I set off at a brisk pace. Two blocks later, I turn right and head down East Dedham Street. It’s quieter here. Calmer. The magnolia trees bloom in mid-May, and while most people don’t notice their subtle scent, I do.
Another six blocks and I’m almost home. When I rented this place, I hired a sighted companion to help me learn the neighborhood. There’s a little Mom and Pop grocery store on the corner. A liquor store two shops down. My local bar between the two.
I know exactly how many steps it is from the corner to my building’s front door. The short set of stairs to the landing. The keypad at ten o’clock. Chest level. Eight-two-five-six-zero-three. The buzzer grates, sending my low-level headache ratcheting up a notch.
Four flights of stairs. Thirteen steps each. I run my free hand along the railing as I climb. A right turn, and I try not to disturb my neighbors with my cane’s scraping until I reach the third door on the left.
I stow my briefcase on its designated shelf, my shoes under the bench seat by the door, and my jacket on the hook. My routines are rigid. Never changing. If I set something down in an unfamiliar spot, I might never find it again. Or worse. I’ll trip over it and end up on my ass.
Dropping down on the couch I’ve never seen, I run my hands over the leather. If I don’t call Ry today, I’ll lose my fucking nerve. But what the hell am I going to say to him?
My head pounds, the migraine making me lightheaded. Resting my head against the back of the couch, I try a few deep breathing techniques, hoping I can avoid taking a pill until it’s time to go to bed.
Sleep has been an elusive bitch lately, and I doze off—only to wake to more pounding. This time at my door. “Coming,” I call. “Who is it?”
