“Doing my best.” And because I don’t have to be quiet now that Nova isn’t on the phone, I snatch a plastic baggie from my back pocket and fill it with USB sticks, then I close the drawer and stalk around to the closet. “It’s not my fault your target knew to hide his shit and keep it away from people like you. What do the five keys unlock, anyway? You didn’t tell me yet.”
He snorts and kills the call.
Just like that, the line is dead, and I’m all alone in a room that could kill me if I’m not careful. If Aster is stupid enough to think easily found thumb drives are where Nichols hid the secret he died for, then that’s on him.
But I’m not so foolish as to think Ryan Nichols left his key so exposed.
I don’t think he left his baby sister exposed, either.
12
NOVA
TIME TO BREATHE
Lincoln made it to the bank with twenty minutes to spare before Edwin was out the door and the building was locked up. With an easy smile and relaxed stance, he talked business and numbers with my boss, and snuck side eyes and sly smirks my way.
But then he left, as promised, and assured me of a six-thirty pickup from my front door.
Like a gentleman.
Now, I pull into my driveway and bring the truck around back, the squeak of its chassis and the groan of a vehicle already ten years old hitting my ears much like the Chevy used to.
Different sounds. Unfamiliar groans.
I come to a stop right where I’ve put the Chevy every day for years, and cutting the engine, I make an effortnotto think about the déjà vu pulsing through my veins. Not to think about the truck I miss and the family I wish I could come home to. I allow myself no chance to sit in the cab and wallow in mywhat-ifs. Instead, I snatch up my purse and keys and, pushing the door open, I slide out until my feet touch the gravel. Slamming the door and starting up the porch stairs, I kick the top step out of habit and slide a key into the back door lock. The sun heads toward the horizon behind me, glinting off the shiny black paint of the RAM and bouncing against the kitchen window overlooking the yard.
Despite working in an air-conditioned office, sweat makes my skin sticky, and the way the heat zaps a person’s energy is like a living, breathing being, wrapping its arms around my stomach and pulling me back when all I want to do is move forward.
But the house, at least, is blissfully cool.
Wandering to the dining table and pulling out a chair, I set my purse down and my keys on top. Then, reaching up, I drag my hair off my shoulders and allow my back a chance to breathe.
It’s so hot. So sticky and gross.
But I have a date in a little over an hour, and hair to wash and makeup to apply, so I leave my things in the kitchen and make a beeline for the hall, passing my bedroom and kicking my shoes off as I go. The perk of living alone, at least, is that no one will complain about things being left in the hall.
I roll my lip between my teeth, my eyes on my target and the gleaming white tile Ryan and I laid ourselves two summers ago. And by Ryan and I, I mean Ryan did the work, and I heckled him a little bit.
Which, honestly, was my role all along.
I drop my hair and push the bathroom door open. But in my peripherals, Ryan’s door draws my focus.
I pause.
Frowning, I change direction and walk to his closed door. Why am I coming this way when my plan was to ignore all things that make me sad tonight? Why stare down at the knob when it’s just that? A knob. Old and tarnished bronze. Shiny in the front, where hands rarely touch, and worn around the edges, where we’ve grabbed it a million times over the years.
I swallow and lick my dry lips, then I open the door and glance in, hit first with Ryan’s woodsy scent, still infused within his blankets and the weave of his rug. I study his bed, still made with the sheets he last slept in, because I’m not ready to strip them off yet. At the end, his bag I haven’t touched.Won’ttouch. Those are his things, and maybe someday, years from now, I might pull the zipper open and look inside.
But that day is not today.
I fight a battle between holding my breath—so I don’t cry—and wanting to breathe,purely so I can visit with my brother for a moment more. But I’m not sure which avenue to choose, and because of it, all I manage is a choppy inhale and a tremor to my jaw.
But the tears stay away, at least. The ache in my throat is mercifully gentle.
As I wander through his room, I nibble on the inside of my cheek and drag my fingertips across the blankets. I eye the painting on the far wall, the one our mother created when we were just a prayer inside her belly, and coming to a stop in front of the slightly askew frame, I fix it with a tap of my thumb, only for the stark white glint of something in my peripherals to pull my attention.
Again.
