When we reached my apartment, I paused, thinking I heard crying again. “Do you hear that?” I asked, scanning the hallway.
Whit shook his head. “Hear what?”
I listened for a moment longer before unlocking the door. Once inside, I quickly put away the leftovers and returned to the living room to find Whit still holding Henry, waiting patiently.
“Sorry,” I whispered, reaching for my son. “Let me take him.” I started for the hallway but paused and looked back. “Thanks again, Whit. For everything.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and gave a terse nod, his brows drawn together in something of a frown. “My pleasure.”
When I returned from getting Henry into his pajamas and tucking him in, I was startled to see Whit on the couch—not relaxing, just perched on the very edge of the cushion, hands clasped, posture tense.
He rose immediately when he saw me. “Apologies,” he said, shoving his hands back into his pockets in what I was beginning to realize was his tell when he felt awkward and uncomfortable. “I wanted to make sure you were okay before I left.”
“Because I’m hearing things as well as seeing things, you mean?” I teased with a small grin.
This earned an actual smile. “I never said that.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t have to. I saw it in your face. But I’m not hearing things. Ididhear arguing this afternoon and then a woman crying. I’m certain of that.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I can solve that mystery for you. You likely heard Billy Wayne and Kitty. They have a volatile relationship.”
Determined to get at what Whitwasn’tsaying, I asked, “Is Kitty in danger? Should someone check on her?”
“I’m not aware of any danger,” Whit assured me. “Just arguing and screaming at each other, most likely over Billy Wayne’s wandering eye, if I had to guess. But if it concerns you, I can look in on her tomorrow.”
It wasn’t entirely reassuring, but I nodded anyway. “Thanks.”
We stood there together in silence for a moment before he finally gestured toward the door with his thumb and said, “Better get going.”
I walked him to the door, suddenly feeling awkward again. He paused in the doorway, studying me, brow furrowed.
“Zellie—” he began, but he bit off whatever it was he’d wanted to say. “Goodnight. Call me if you need anything.”
I nodded. “I will,” I said softly. “Thank you, Whit. For everything.”
He gave me a curt nod then headed toward the elevator. I watched him go, then shut the door and leaned against it, closing my eyes as I recalled the gentle pressure of his hand on mine earlier, the comforting gesture that made my heart skip a beat and my breath hitch, and wishing I could silence the voice inside me that whispered in warning.
In my dream, I was running barefoot through the trees, the branches smacking me in the face, clawing at me, cutting my skin. I glanced behind me, terrified of what followed in the darkness, my fear propelling me forward though my lungs burned and my muscles ached. My long white nightgown snagged on a branch and for one brief, panicked moment I thought I’d been caught, but the fabric ripped, and I kept running—
A slap to the face startled me awake. I bolted up and covered my left eye, which throbbed and watered from the impact.
“What the hell?” I spat, furious.
The hand that had struck me was small, a child’s hand. Heart pounding, I searched the darkness with my good eye, looking for Henry.
Why would he do that? Was he sleepwalking? Playing some strange prank?
It wasn’t like him at all.
I threw back my covers and stormed to his room, intending to find out what the hell he was thinking, but he was sound asleep, his covers kicked off to expose one bare foot, one arm dangling over the side of his bed.
My stomach twisted.
If it wasn’t Henry…
As I stood there, the implications of what had just happened made those tighten, and a wave of nausea swept over me. I raced to the bathroom, barely making it in time.
What the hell was with me?
