The amount of love I felt for this girl in such a short time should’ve been weird. However, we’d trauma-bonded over the last week, and she’d become my second-best friend.
“You mean other than the fact that I just shot my father?” I asked, drawing in a deep breath despite it causing a hell of a lot of pain. “Yes, I’m okay. Are you okay?”
She nodded, her lip trembling.
I opened my arms and she hurried toward me, burying her face into my neck. “I was so scared.”
And even though she was the same size as me, I held her close until her trembling subsided.
“You saved my life,” I told her bluntly. “I don’t know why, exactly, he was here. But there’s no doubt in my mind he probably would’ve killed me tonight.”
“How do you think he knew where you were?” she asked, voice trembling.
“Small town.” I ran my hand over her back in soothing circles. “Not to mention, he was well aware of Weaver and I being an item well before this.”
She shivered.
“I need to get dressed,” I proclaimed when I heard raised voices in the living room. “You, too. You can wear something of mine.”
Both of us were in T-shirts and panties.
Neither one of us said a word as I pulled out clothes and we got dressed.
Both of us ended up wearing one of Weaver’s hooded sweatshirts.
Mine had come from the top of the dresser, Weaver’s scent causing my nerves to relax despite the situation.
“You’re swimming in that.” I snickered.
“I kept hoping that one day I’d grow up and get super tall like my dad,” she said. “My mom, according to my grandmother, wasn’t super short, either. But here I am, five-foot-two and done growing.”
“You never know,” I said as I took her hand and squeezed. “You could still gain a few inches.”
Car doors slammed.
More voices could be heard.
Yet, we stayed tucked away in the bedroom so long that I chose to turn on another movie while we waited.
Both of us were tired, but neither one of us fell asleep again.
In all honesty, both of us were still on the verge of freaking out when Weaver finally came into the bedroom and closed the door solidly behind him.
“He’s been taken to the hospital,” Weaver said as he leaned against the bedroom door. “What happened?”
I gestured toward his kid and said, “Boston woke me up because she heard something. When I came out of the bedroom to check on the sound, I heard the back doorknob jiggling and clicking. I figured they were picking the door, and I sort of froze, wondering whether or not I should allow them to come inside and just shoot them, or yell. I don’t know. Our phones wouldn’t work. Boston tried calling 9-1-1 several times. We tried to call you. Anyway, my dad comes busting through the door, and I yell at him to freeze.”
“You knew it was your father?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I didn’t know who it was. I only knew the person’s identity after I told him to stop or I’d shoot him.”
“Then what happened?” Weaver asked.
“He didn’t stop,” I whispered.
Weaver’s head dropped. “He had a jammer. Blocks the signal from going out and in. It also jammed up all the video feeds. And I forgot to set the alarm when I left.”
“He would’ve still come inside,” Boston pointed out. “He wasn’t rational. I was listening through the door the whole time. He was screaming at the top of his lungs. When I opened the door, he looked like he was nuts. He was yelling and shaking his fists. Spittle was flying. Rabid comes to mind.”
