When all the bins are loaded, I shut the hatchback of the old station wagon I bought for a handful of cash. The hood is rusted, and the ignition is cranky, but luckily for me, Jazz knows her way around old car engines. She’s done a great job with changing the spark plugs, oil, and brake pads. The spare parts as well as my hospital stay and health tests ate up most of my savings from my previous job, but reliable wheels are non-negotiable.
“Come on, Noah.” I wave him over from where he’s jumping hurdles over the stepping stones of the path. “Let’s drop the trash off at the dump.”
His amber eyes light up. The recycle dump has industrial containers for different recyclable products. We turned matching the items to the right containers into a game. Noah gets to throw the trash that doesn’t have sharp edges through the trapdoors, an activity he enjoys tremendously. His favorite is chucking the jars through the trap hole and waiting for the shattering noise as the glass hits the pile.
He comes running and clambers into his car seat in the back, something he insists on doing himself. He says he’s too big now for me to help him.
I buckle him in and test the safety belt to ensure the clip has locked properly. Jazz slides into the passenger side. I take the wheel.
I stay alert when I turn into the street, checking my rearview mirror every few seconds, but the red truck is nowhere to be seen. No one is following us. Letting out a long breath, I ease down in the seat and finally allow myself to relax.
After stopping at the dump, we’re home just after six, which gives Jazz an hour with Noah in the park before it’s time for his bath and dinner. They leave with his plastic soccer ball. Noah loves to play with that ball. The park is just down the block, which is one of the points that tipped my decision in favor of renting here.
The furnished accessory dwelling unit we call home shares a wall with the landlord’s house. The bathroom smells moldy, and the window is stuck. On the plus side, it has a shower inside the yellowed tub and an ancient top loader in one corner. Not having to wash our clothes by hand is a big timesaver.
Noah and I bunk down in the bedroom while Jazz makes herself as comfortable as she can on the lumpy sofa in the lounge. The paint is peeling, the carpet tiles are lifting, and the roof has a leak, but there’s a small yard with a slide at the back. I keep the place clean and tidy and do my best to make it cozy.
We’re living from hand to mouth, so this is the best I can do. I’m hoping to build up the home organizing business and improve our living conditions, but I can only do that if I stay put in one place where I can grow my client base, at least for a while.
I’d love to have that soak in the tub Jazz suggested, but it’s not often that I have an hour of free time, so I decide to use it wisely by prepping Noah’s lunch box for tomorrow and getting a head start on the laundry. That way, I can get into bed earlier. At this point, sleep is higher on my priority list than a luxurious bath.
After a quick shower, I dress in clean leggings and a T-shirt. I’m padding on socked feet to the kitchen, wringing the water out of my wet hair with a towel when there’s a knock on the front door.
I stop dead, my heart jumping into my throat. Jazz has the spare key. She wouldn’t have knocked. If she’s lost her key, she would’ve called through the door to let me know it was her.
Someone knocks again, harder this time.
I take a second to weigh my options, my gaze darting between the lounge where my tote bag with the burner phone lies on the coffee table and the kitchen where I keep a gun locked in a drawer.
Making a split-second decision, I drop the towel and run for the kitchen. Both the back and front doors are locked. The windows are closed. I always double-check before hitting the shower. But windows and doors are easy to break.
I skirt around the kitchen table, knocking a chair over in my haste. Pushing myself up onto the cabinet, I climb onto the counter. I have to stand on tiptoes to reach the top of the cupboard. I feel around the crown molding for the key I taped there. It takes precious seconds, seconds in which my hand shakes so much I barely get a grip on the cupboard, but I couldn’t risk Noah finding the key.
At last, my fingers brush over cold, hard metal. I rip off the tape and grab the key. The knocking on the door has stopped. Whoever is on the other side is rattling the handle now.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I jump down and fumble with the old-fashioned lock on the drawer. The mechanism is rusted and stiff. I battle to turn the key.
A bang shakes the door.
Shit.
When I finally get the drawer open, I nearly pull it off its runners. I grab the gun just as the sound of splintering wood announces that the intruder is entering the house. Doing my best to ignore the heavy footsteps that get closer and closer, I click the magazine in place and take off the safety exactly as I’ve practiced. Then I spin around, holding the gun in both hands and pointing the barrel in front of me.
The sight of the man who stalks into my kitchen immobilizes me in shock. It shouldn’t, seeing that I’ve been preparing myself and envisioning this encounter for five years. Yet the picture of him in his dark suit sucks the oxygen from my lungs. His large form blocks out the fading daylight that spills down the hallway. His mere presence takes up all the space in the room.
My brain screams at me, accusing me of tricking myself. Dante Morici isn’t the young man of twenty-four I remember. For some reason, the last image I saw of him got stuck in my mind. In my bitter and painful recollections, he never aged. For the life of me, I don’t know why not. I don’t know why I never imagined him older. It’s a simple glitch, a malfunction of the psyche. Maybe the memories he left me with were that strong, strong enough to grind to a halt on those last eternal minutes without moving along with time.
Whatever the reason, the man filling my vision and drowning out my surroundings isn’t the man my memory preserved from time. The grooves cutting from his nose to the corners of his mouth run deeper. The lines of his face are more defined, giving him a distinguished edge. His dirty-blond hair is darker. All the golden highlights from carefree hours spent in the sun are gone. His eyes burn with more intensity, the copper flames in them brighter but devoid of any heat. He’s packed on some muscle, his broad shoulders stretching the expensive jacket and his chest filling out a crisp white shirt. The ink peeking from the collar is new, as are the tattoos on his hands. Are the ones hidden beneath his clothes the same? I traced them so many times with my fingers that I can draw them with my eyes closed.
My gaze is drawn to his left hand as he straightens his tie in an act that’s too casual for the situation. A letter is inked on each finger, but I can only make out the E on his pinky and ring finger. His rings obscure the rest. He still wears the insignia ring that belonged to his father on his index finger and the silver one I gave him for his birthday on his middle finger. The onyx ring on his right hand is new. It’s my father’s wedding ring. I don’t know what shocks me the most—that he stole that ring off the dead body of my father or that he hasn’t removed the one I gifted him.
When he smooths down his jacket, my gaze follows the action. My senses are heightened. I notice every minute detail from the familiar smell of his subtle aftershave to the thick veins that run over the back of his hand. The clean, short nails. I haven’t forgotten how big or strong those hands are. I always knew they had blood on them.
I force myself to look back at his face. At twenty-nine, he’s more devastatingly handsome than I could’ve ever imagined him. But it’s the vibe that rolls off him that hits me the hardest, the danger that he exudes as he slides his icy gaze from my eyes to the gun in my hands.
He’s different.
Empty.
