Yet I’d trained myself to follow this routine for my own well-being, for my own survival. I planned every step of my day, allotted time for my hobbies and social activities. The only place I gave up control was at work, and I struggled with that, even after giving myself an hour of grace in case things ran over. And things had run over tonight by an hour and five minutes. For three of those five minutes, as I was scrambling to finish my closing tasks, my skin was itching and the hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. When I’d gotten home, my pulse was skittering and I felt lightheaded. This added more wasted time because I had to check my blood sugar, and by the time I made it inside, I was nearly half an hour behind on starting my ritual.
Over time, I realized I was drawn to the termritualoverroutine. Everyone has routines, but it was the tasks within the routine that I chose to romanticize more. My evening ritual started off by me humming my favorite song as I hung my purse on the hook by the door. Then I took off my shoes and other outerwear, strategically hanging my coat on one side of the coat rack and my scarf on the other. My shoes were placed in the small shoe cabinet I’d purchased after buying this place. My keys were never to be put in my purse unless I was at work or the shopping center. Other than that, they were supposed to be in my hand, in the ignition, or in the pretty green glass bowl on my entryway table. This was so they wouldn’t get lost.
Then I would light all twelve of the white candles perched on my hearth. And with each candle I lit, I would name something I was grateful for. Some nights, I would recite the same twelve things. Other times, if I had the mental capacity, I would challenge myself to find different things to be grateful for. I didn’t want this part of my ritual to feel like a chore, so I didn’t push. Most of the time, I said what was on my mind and heart, leaving it at that.
After I was done with that, I would take a scalding seven-minute shower. Ten minutes if I needed to wash my hair. Then came my five-step nightly skin care routine, then dinner, then thirty minutes of decompression in the living room while a movie played. Once the kitchen was cleaned, the dishwasher running, the countertops disinfected, then…then I could retreat to the sanctuary of my room for the night.
Sleep, of course, never came easy due to the nightmares. But my routine helped. My daily, weekly, monthly routines, rituals dotted throughout each, helped me heal in ways I never thought possible. Not finding sleep quicker than I needed was a monumental problem. It was a problem because when the house was quiet, the candles all blown out, the day finished, themoonlight would flow through my windows. I loved the moon. I loved her light. What I didn’t love was the way the moonlight stretched across the floor. Because no matter what kind of flooring or where I was, that image would yank me back into the past. Back to the memory where my dark knight came to rescue me from the dreadful castle. The more the memory resurfaced, the more I felt the shackles on my hands and wrists, the weight of them threatening to snap my then frail bones if I tugged too hard. The smell of him, clean and fresh, would overwhelm my senses as my psyche fought to keep me in the present. His gentle voice would sound in my ears.
“Everything is going to be okay now,” he’d whispered to me. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”
And he’d kept that promise, staying out of my life when I coincidentally crashed into him. I don’t know how or why the world managed to bring me back to the man who gave me a second chance at life, but I couldn’t be around him.
He was never supposed to be in my present. He couldn’t be.
I’d categorized him as someone in my past and nothing more.
That hot summer day when my gaze collided with his at the bookstore, I’d gotten a funny feeling in my chest, but my mind shut it down quickly, commanding me to set a firm boundary. So that’s exactly what I did. And any time I thought about the pain I might’ve caused him, the guilt was stronger than anything I’d ever known. There were rare occasions, mainly on my off days, when I let my mind wonder, that I would conjure up an elaborate plan to track and hunt him down to thank him for saving my life. In this plan, gifts were added to ease his pain…like three pies or a pile of money. None of these ideas eased the guilt. In fact, most of the time, they only added to it.
The last thing I or any of his friends expected was for him to disappear.
Chapter Two
Ash
Three and a half years ago.
Ishifted the SUV into park, trying not to scoff at the ridiculous mansion sprawled out before me. From the looksof it, it most likely had two wings: one for Red Snake’s client and the other for his guests.
“Organized religion,” I muttered, leaning back in my seat. “That’s where the money is.”
Dominic, Red Snake’s weapon specialist, chuckled, filling the cab with the sound. I glanced down at the screen on the dash, noting the time. “We should expect you back soon, then?” he asked, brushing off the clear judgment in my tone.
“Within the next twenty-four hours,” I confirmed, my body aching for a bed that could actually fit me. The beds I slept in while on jobs were always too short, leaving my feet hanging over the edge of the mattress. I fucking loathed it, but I was willing to deal with it because the work I did was fulfilling.
I was a bounty hunter and private investigator for Red Snake Investigations. Before that, I had been a SEAL, but that job wasn’t something I had the mental capacity for, let alone the strength to do long term. After retirement, Hayes Mitchell, retired Air Force pilot and co-owner of Red Snake, heard I’d been looking for work through some mutual friends and reached out. I met him and Grayson at the office a few days after that, which led me to today, waiting for a client to arrive for payment.
“I have no idea why he couldn’t just wire the damn money,” I drawled, settling into my seat, my fingers tapping on the steering wheel.
“He’s an old man who isn’t caught up with the times,” Dominic replied.. “We also don’t want to piss him off, so be nice.”
A grunt left me then. Usually, I didn’t handle these kinds of jobs—Hayes did. He was better at dealing with high-profile personalities, giving them peace of mind, but since Grayson was gone, Mitchell couldn’t leave the office.
“Have you heard from Grayson?” I asked. A few weeks ago, Red Snake had gotten a call from some old contacts in St. Louis, asking Grayson for help in finding a woman who’d escaped a rehabilitation center. This woman, Carrie Hale, ended up being Grayson’s soulmate—no one else could see it, though. I didn’t have to see it; I’d heard it in his voice the night he saw her in person for the first time. It was magic, a powerful force of nature and fate that linked two unknown souls together.
Another chuckle left Dominic, this one softer. “He’s keeping an eye on Ms. Hale. She’s apparently told him to tell our client to stop trying to drag her back home. She’s started a new life in Astoria, Oregon.”
“I’ve been there,” I murmured, eyes on the front door of the mansion. “It’s a nice town.”
“What were you there for?”
“Visiting my Nonna. She used to live just south of it, down on the coast,” I told him. The sweet smell of oranges washed over me suddenly as the memory of her raspy laughter hit me. I smiled to myself, then lifted my eyes, scanning the mansion again. “Anyway, you should see this place—” I stopped short, my eyes landing on the far-right window on the second floor. “Son of a bitch. He’s home,” I growled.
“He is?”
“Yes, and I’ve been sitting out here, wasting time and talking to you.” I shut the vehicle off, ended the call, and got out, grabbing the duffel for the cash. As I made my way across the bricked driveway, irritation crawled up my spine, balling up at the base of my neck. I’d finished the job hours ago, and when I contacted the client, Alan Benson, he’d told me that payment would be made at his home. I took in my surroundings, jaw tight, body on alert. This place was on the outskirts of Austin, hidden deep within the trees. It was quiet out here. Something I’m sure Pastor Benson enjoyed, given he was the head of thebiggest church in the capital. In fact, before his accountant had run off with all the money in the church’s savings account, he’d been planning on building a second “campus” near Texas State University. That was over six months ago. When Benson finally got in contact with us, it was suspected his accountant had already left the country.
He hadn’t.
