Edmond mentioned the guest room was taken, so Slade had to have bid on someone else. Is she okay?
It tortures me. Whyme? Why did Slade come last night? He didn’t have to, and he doesn’t owe me anything. But if he hadn’t—if Bishop had his way—there wouldn’t be much of me left to save. The thought makes me nauseous. I’m not sure what’s worse: what almost happened, or that a man like Slade DuPont is the reason it didn’t.
My stomach twists, then rumbles a second later, loud enough to make me wince at myself in the mirror. I lift my T-shirt. My ribs jut with every breath, the skin stretched thin and ghost-pale—lighter than it’s ever been. I run a hand down my side, fingertips grazing bone, and try to remember the last time I ate something and felt full.
Surely the congressman doesn’t want me wandering around, but Edmond seems accommodating enough for both of them. So, after exiting the bathroom, I ease the bedroom door open, gently turning and then wincing at the soft click of the latch. The house is still and quiet. There isn’t a clock in Slade’s room, and I have no idea what time it is, but I slink down the hallway. It’s like a mezzanine-type ledge between the second-floor suite and the stairway leading down into the rest of the lake house.
Dawn spills over the lake, and I pause midway down the steps to appreciate the pale light seeping in through the window wall. Long streams of early morning light paint the steps as I break them apart with each creep of my bare feet.
When I reach the bottom of the steps, I glance down the hallway—nothing. The same goes for the living room and dining room. I don’t normally wander where I’m not supposed to, but I tiptoe down the hallway I know houses the first guest room I stayed in. With the door shut, I stand there a moment contemplating whether I should barge in or let her sleep—which is probably what she’d appreciate, and what Ishouldbe doing.
There’s a cracked door at the end of the hall, and I drag my feet over the smooth wood to peek through the crack. I can’t see much, and I don’t dare open the door, but it looks like an office. Bookshelves, cold and bland compared to the ones upstairs, encase the one wall I can see, and on the floor is a tiny cot, blankets crumpled up in a pile. This must be his home office, then?
I blink, pulling my head back to refocus. Why would he give me his room and sleep on a cot in his office when he’s got a king bed upstairs more comfortable than fluffy sun-warmed sand? He already saved me from Bishop’s house, though I’m still unsure why. The couch would’ve been fine, and I’d even psyched myself up for it. I’d have slept on a cold bench outside to get out of the Bishop situation.
The faint murmur of words, low enough to blur into more like a hum, floats down the hall, and I dart away from the door to hunt the sounds coming from the kitchen. As I get closer, I realize it’s the sound of a TV switched on, but push through the door anyway.
Stefan stands at the island, prepping and chopping like I’d never left. If it weren’t for the purple bandana shoved into his hairline instead of the red from last night, I’d assume he stayed over. He looks up and rolls his eyes but continues chopping. “Oh, hell … Morning.”
“Uh, good morning.”He’s rude.
“Need something?”
Ha. Yes. To go home. Leave this house. EV. Probably the state of Illinois at the rate they’d send people after me. “Do you know the time?”
He snorts. “The time?” He gestures to an iron clock on the wall above the built-in banquette, which wraps around a round table with cozy bay windows surrounding either side.
It’s 6:15 a.m. Ireallywish I’d slept longer.
“Oh, okay. Thanks.” I pad farther into the kitchen, hovering on the other side of the island. Stefan slices an onion. “What are you making?”
I jolt at the clatter of the knife as he smacks it down and sighs. “Slade wants French onion soup for dinner tonight.”
I’m not sure why the knowledge of Slade requesting soup for dinner makes me smile, but it does. Perhaps it humanizes him, like his collection of comics softens him, because the man clearly still believes in heroes, right?
Stefan spreads his arms out, resting a hand on either side of the cutting board, and studies me. His gaze roams the plain T-shirt hanging down over my thighs, and I cringe thinking about wandering the house in Slade’s shirt like I own the place.It’s better than that gaudy gold outfit, though.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
Good question. I’d like the answer, too.
I muster a shrug instead. “Kind of hungry.”
He harrumphs but moves to the sink to wash his hands. “How about I make something?”
“Frosted Flakes are fine. I never did get to eat them.”
He blinks and shakes his head. “I know. Edmond returned them to the kitchen last night saying you’d fallen asleep. And when I’m here in the mornings, you eat a real breakfast. How about an omelet?”
An omelet?—
“Cheddar cheese and bacon sound good?”
When he opens the refrigerator, muttering off more and more options to stuff an omelet with, I’m drawn to it. Food, so much food, and not in a juice bottle either. Rows of fresh fruits and vegetables, long cuts of fresh fish, meat, eggs—I’m overwhelmed.
I stare at the food like it might disappear. My stomach coils into a tight knot. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m acutely awarethat Stefan is watching me. His gaze lingers on me as I look at the fridge full of food. I glance away before the warmth in my face spreads to tint my body as well.
It isn’t just the few weeks I’ve been subject to EV’s strict diet that has saliva pooling in my mouth—it’s that my parents never had this much food stored. At home, when I opened the fridge, the cold light illuminated mostly empty shelves. A half jar of pickles. A couple of eggs in the carton. A block of cheese with the corner dried out and hard. There’d be the typical expired condiments, and a few bruised apples—sparse. But what wasn’t lacking … beer. Phil’s bottles lined the shelves, tucked in between the off-brand yogurt my mother splurged on for me to take to school. Cans on their sides or stacked three-high and shoved in the door. I guess the only silver lining was that Phil drank them fast enough that when my mother had extra money to buy more groceries, she had room to put them in. If she moved his beer, well, that was bad.
