“There’s a matching bruise on the other knee. I’ll take a couple of the painkillers,” he said.
She laughed as she dumped pills into his outstretched hand, then handed him what was left of her glass of water. “Pro tip. You don’t want to spend a lot of time on your knees on tile. Or hardwood. Or concrete.”
“Or carpet,” he said, pleasantly willing to laugh at himself. “Rug burn is for amateurs. So variety isn’t the spice of life?”
She twitched her wrist to adjust her bracelet, an automatic move she’d done thousands of times. But this time there was no bracelet. The smile disappeared off her face so fast the muscles in her jaw twinged in protest. “My life is already a little too spicy at the moment. I want safe, comfortable spices. Gingerbread lattes. Spice cookies. Peppermint candy canes. Holiday spices that smell like home and family and love.”
“I get that,” he said.
She was beginning to put together the pieces, his conversation with her mother, his relationship with Shane. Conn knew how it felt to never feel safe, to never know if home was the place where people took you in, or threw you out.
“I got another text from Bryan. There was another attack. I’m starting to see frustration from fans—emails, tweets, that kind of thing.”
“What did he say?”
She showed him her phone. Anyone in Lancaster hate you? IP addresses there definitely involved.
“I thought I was safe here,” she said. To her shock, tears were welling up in her eyes. She turned away, busied herself with pushing down the French press, then pouring coffee into two cups.
Conn’s voice, sandy and resonant, came from behind her. “We will find this guy, and make this stop.”
“I don’t doubt it,” she said, pleased to hear her own voice was steady. “But a dozen more are waiting to take his place. A hundred. This is my life. I can’t believe in fairy tales anymore.”
“Okay,” he said. “Plans for the day?”
“I’ve got some ideas running in my head,” she said, hearing the notes for the phrasing patter through in her mind. It was insistent, not catchy, but demanding her attention. “Studio time. You?”
“We need to have a meeting,” Conn said.
That brought her up short. “With who?”
“Hawthorn. Dorchester. Whoever else they think is a good idea to bring in. We need to do it here. I’d rather keep you at home than risk you going out.”
“Fine by me,” she said, reaching for her phone. “Chris is going to want in on that conference.”
He had some thoughts about Chris. “Understood.”
After a few minutes of texting with their respective tribes, they’d set a time to conference at Cady’s house later in the afternoon. “I’m going into my studio,” she said, and gathered her notebook and her guitar in one hand, and the handles of her tea and coffee mugs in the other.
Conn stopped her with a not-so-subtle lean of his body, then dropped a quick kiss on her mouth. “Keep your cell with you at all times,” he said, his slate eyes serious.
She waggled it at him, shifting her guitar in its case in the process. “You know where to find me,” she said, and walked downstairs, into the studio.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Conn peered in the opaque reflective glass on Cady’s microwave and winced. He was about two weeks past a regulation haircut, and after falling asleep in Cady’s bed with wet hair, he looked like he did after he’d let Shane’s nieces and nephews go to town with their craft paste. He solved that problem with his watch cap, which, after ten minutes of riffling through pockets of every coat hanging in Cady’s mudroom, he found drying on top of the washing machine in the laundry room. She’d scrubbed all the sap off his jacket and hers; they hung side by side on hooks by the garage. His and hers hooks, he thought as he shouldered into his jacket. He backtracked into his bedroom for his gun, badge, and cuffs, then walked outside. He was due for a perimeter check.