“Good night, Doc. I’ll see you soon,” I murmur.
Very soon,in fact.
“Night,” Kat says quietly. She turns to head back down the dark and muddy pathway back to Pearson House. She pauses a few feet from the pathway and turns her head to the side.
“Oh, and Zayn?” she says over her shoulder. I take in her beautiful profile, highlighted a glowing white in the moonlight.
“Yeah, Doc?”
“Next time, maybe consider using the front door.”
A grin spreads across my face.Next time.
“You got it, Doc.”
13
SCARS
ZAYN
It’s been four days since Katherine came down to confront me at Bronwin Home. I’ve caught glimpses of her here and there, as she came and went from Pearson House, but largely I’ve given her space.
Her blonde friend Beatrice has been there every day, bringing Kat food and a bottle of white wine each visit. While I’m glad Kat has her, I won’t pretend that I don’t wish it was me. That it was me cooking for her, taking care of her. With any luck, it soon would be.
I hack away at an old growth fir with my hatchet, ignoring the way some of the larger branches snag and tear at the exposed skin of my forearms. Instead, I lean into the stinging pain. Embrace it. The discomfort of physical labor tamps down the pain of heartache. And it was anache. The constant tension between my guilt and yearning for Kat that played out in my head every day.
I kick the clipped branches into a pile and run my hands through my hair. After the branches are brought undercontrol, I grab my shears and turn my attention to the multicolor rosebushes that encircle Pearson House like a moat. I meticulously clip and shape the roses, taking care to go with the natural shape of the blooms—just like Mom had done all those years ago.
A soft, low voice drifts over the railing of the back porch. “You know,” she says, “only serial killers would pay that close attention to rosebushes.”
I glance up to see Kat’s slender form leaning against the railing.Wonder how long she’s been watching me for.Just like Lachlan used to. I’m struck by how similar her body language is to his. He used to talk with me from this very position, not so long ago.
“And who says I’m not?” I quip, offering her a half-smile, “everybody needs a hobby.”
I peer at her over the top of the clippers and take her in. She rolls her eyes at me and leans further against the railing. Her dark hair cascades over one shoulder in a soft wave that is so beautiful and tantalizing that for one wild moment, I fantasize about rushing the porch, pulling myself up, and hauling myself over the railing to stand beside her just so I can run my fingers through it.
“Just can’t leave well enough alone, can you?” she spits at me. “One moment you’re straight up haunting me in this fucking house, then you’re the dedicated groundskeeper. Which one is the real you, I wonder?”
She is clearly still pissed at my deception. Honestly, she has every right to be. However, the accuracy in her words bite and elicit a spark of defensiveness from somewhere in my gut.
“Hey, you’re one to talk Doc,” I respond, “It’s you that’s been creating little projects left and right for Pearson House. The home is fine and hasn’t needed half of what you’ve done. What areyoutrying to avoid, huh?”
Her scrawny black cat suddenly joins us, slowly winding his way between her legs to peer down at me from the porch.
Kat surveys me through narrowed eyes before turning on her heel and heading back inside. Bundy follows her in a clear display of solidarity.
Smug little fucker.
____________________
KAT
Ok, but seriously fuck him,I think, as I stalk back inside. The man had been a constant presence around Pearson House for the past several days. Chopping wood, clipping the rosebushes, taking out the trash and compost. It’s as though now that his secret was out, he was fully embracing no longer being a ghost and wanted to be visible to me at every possible moment.
And it’s not that his presence wasn’t comforting to me, because it oddly was. It was just thetending to, the taking care of me. The daily checking in, even though he knew full well that Bea was here daily. I wasn’t used to someone being there, let alone having a sense of obligation to me—even if only in their mind. I was still acclimating to life post-attack, and uneasy about this new and unusual arrangement of ours.
I rounded the corner yesterday to find him crouched and tightening a screw on the rain gutter at the side of the house and nearly leapt out of my skin. He apologized for catching me off guard, even reaching out a large hand to steady me. And just like the night he rescued me from Josh’s attack, his touch had a near instant calming effect on my nervous system. I just felt safe.
