Page 61 of Fallen Creed

Brodie finally felt safe living in Hannah’s house. The fifty-acre property was isolated by forestland and protected by security cameras and alarms. She knew it wasn’t failsafe. Several months ago, an intruder had proven that. But it was more than that. It felt like a home. She was part of a family again.

Suddenly, she wanted to go back. She wanted to be in her room, listening to the familiar sounds of birds outside her window, of Hannah clanging pots and pans down in the kitchen. She wanted to do her morning routine of chores.

She started worrying about the dogs in the kennel. Who would make sure that Molly wasn’t scared if there was thunder? Would anyone notice if Knight was stiff and needed a massage where his amputated leg was set inside his prosthetic? Would Jason’s friends realize Chance wasn’t mean at all? He just needed a reassuring voice to tell him he was a good boy.

How many miles had they gone? Was it too late to turn around?

Of course, it was too late. She needed to breathe. She needed to concentrate on Ryder and Grace. All those years he searched for her. What did a few uncomfortable days matter?

She could do this. She had to do this.

—48—

Jason knew Brodie wasn’t fine. He tried not to ask her too often. He knew she hated it but would politely answer each time that she was fine.

He weighed his options as he stole a glance now and then from behind his sunglasses. Gut instinct told him to call Hannah, but that felt like a betrayal. Loyalty, trust... Jason understood how precious both were. He was still trying to earn Brodie’s trust. Show her she could lean on him. She didn’t have to go through PTSD all alone.

He had to admit, Brodie was a pretty good pretender. He figured he should know, since he had spent a good deal of time pretending he was fine when he came back from Afghanistan. Back then, after all the surgeries and rehab, the only thing that got him through the week was daydreaming about and perfecting his Plan B.

When doctors loaded him up on prescriptions for painkillers, anti-anxiety and sleeping pills, Jason stashed them away. He noted each pill’s purpose and cataloged them by color and size. He knew by heart which one he’d need to take first, second and last for the ultimate result. If living got too hard, dying would be easier by implementing his Plan B. It became his escape, his trapdoor.

Brodie didn’t have a Plan B. How could she? During those sixteen years, she fought starvation and all kinds of punishment, from isolation and darkness to being drugged and wounded. It pissed off Jason every time he tried to think about what she’d been through. Afghanistan and that IED he’d encountered seemed like a cakewalk compared to what she’d been through.

She’d survived all of that, only to have the residual fear and anxiety derail her from enjoying her newfound freedom. PTSD was a bitch. In some ways, it was worse than the actual event, because the actual event eventually ended. The PTSD reared its ugly head repeatedly, and always when you least expected it. It grabbed you by the throat and you had no idea if it would strangle you for two minutes or two days.

They’d left the hotel only an hour ago, and Jason took the first major exit at Sikeston, Missouri.

“What’s wrong?” Brodie asked, jerking straight up in her seat and looking around.

He held back a grimace. He hated that her default was to assume something was wrong.

“Nothing’s wrong. There’s a McDonald’s. I thought I’d get some coffee. You need anything?”

“No, I’m fine.”

This time, he rubbed at his jaw to catch himself.

“Are you feeling sleepy?” she asked.

“No. I’m wide awake.”

“Then why are you getting coffee? You don’t even like it.”

“What makes you think I don’t like coffee?”

She went quiet for a minute, like maybe she’d revealed something she shouldn’t have. The truth was Jason didn’t much like it. He pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot but found a shaded slot instead of going around to the drive-thru lane.

“Well,” she explained. “You always have a cup, but you sit with your hand wrapped around it. You don’t bother to put anything in it.”

“Ryder drinks his coffee black,” he challenged her.

“Yes, but he drinks it. Hannah puts cream and a teaspoon of sugar. No more. No less. She stirs it then blows on it before her first sip. And she looks like she enjoys it. You just sort of let it sit. You only take a few sips. And you always have a lot to pour down the drain.”

“Okay, you’re right. I’m not a fan,” Jason said. “When people ask if you want a cup of coffee, it’s not usually because they want to drink coffee with you. Most of the time, they just want to talk.”

“So it’s a prop.”

“Sometimes. Not always.”