I ring Mr. Collins’s doorbell the next day on my way to the bus stop, but nobody answers the door. When I try to peek through the windows, I find the curtains drawn.
There has to be an explanation. I’m pretty sure this is the house Adam showed me. But maybe I misunderstood. I must have.
Or maybe he’s renting a room. God knows that house is small, but who knows? Maybe there’s an attic. Or he’s renting the house and Mr. Collins only came by to collect the rent.
In any case, it’s none of my business, and no matter what Merc thinks, there’s nothing sinister going on here.
It makes absolutely no sense why I’m still thinking about it. Merc’s unease has probably seeped into me. Unease by osmosis, courtesy of my brother.
Hey, stranger things have happened.
Meanwhile, work is calling me, and all thoughts of Adam and the strange happenings on my street fly out of my head when I find out the kids are sick.
Matt has dark shadows under his eyes, and vomit over his white T-shirt. He manages to look both in control and way in over his head, like some powerful God with a hangover.
He insists that he should stay home to look after his kids, and it’s sweet, but I’ve got this.
I gently but firmly shove him toward the bathroom to shower and change—without peeking, honest—and afterward push him out the door with a promise to call if there’s any need.
He hesitates on the doorstep, though, his gaze straying to the staircase and up, where his kids are lying sick in bed, and my heart flips over. Nothing like a big, brooding man all torn over his children being unwell.
This is dangerous for my heart. Very dangerous.
I have to keep reminding myself Matt Hansen isn’t the man for me. No matter how handsome, how sexy, no matter how much I’d like to ease the torment in his dark eyes… lusting after him, falling for him is a bad idea all around.
You know it.
My rational brain knows it. My body has other ideas, though, getting all hot and bothered whenever he’s near.
He finally leaves, and the act of cleaning up vomit, soothing feverish kids and cooking broth for them takes my mind off all the ways my body wants Matt.
Virgin to slut in one night, I swear… this is so ridiculous. Especially with him pushing me away afterward and this uneasy truce between us.
But I won’t think about that. Not again.
Mary calls my name from upstairs, so I hurriedly fill two bowls with broth and take them to their bedroom.
Poor kids. They look like hell, tired and cranky. Ugh. I pray to God I won’t catch his bug. At least the room doesn’t stink of vomit anymore.
I set the tray down on Mary’s bed, tuck napkins over their laps and make sure the broth isn’t scalding before placing the bowls in front of them.
Not surprisingly, they aren’t very hungry. Cole wants to hear a story, so I grab one of the books from one of their still unpacked boxes and read them the story of Alexander and his Terrible, Horrible, Not good, Very bad Day.
I think it fits, even if it’s for children older than Cole. He seems to like it, small head cocked to the side, blue eyes bright. Mary stirs her spoon in the bowl, flicking me glances. I can see she likes it, too.
Getting into the rhythm of reading is easy. Acting out the story is second nature. Got lots of practice under my belt with Gigi and Merc.
The book distracts them enough to eat some of the broth and bread I put on the side.
“Another story,” Cole whines the moment I’m done. Mary makes puppy eyes at me and pouts.
Oh God… They’re so frigging cute. How can I ever say no?
Much like their terrible brute of a sexy daddy, these kids are irresistible…
Chapter Twenty-Five
Matt
There’s a cat stuck to my door.
A fucking cat, a cleaver sticking out its side, its blood and guts smeared all over the light wood, dripping to the floor.
My stomach turns, and I swallow bile.
Christ.
But this time… I glance up at the security camera the company installed a few days ago. Gotcha, you bastard.
I take out my phone, log into the footage.
And… there’s nothing from today. Literally nothing. Just black. What the hell?
I lower my phone and stare at the dead cat a moment too long, my head pounding, my heart hammering so fast against my ribs I feel light-headed.
I’m gonna kill Ross. That fucking bastard.
But first I call John Elba and report what is going on, because he told me that’s what I should do if anything happens and because I’m an idiot believing this will convince him to take action.
John tells me pleasantly that I should contact the security company, see why the camera didn’t work. And that he’ll send someone to collect the evidence, hoping for evidence of some kind.
But that he isn’t hopeful, and that I should stay out of this. That I’ll make his job more difficult if I attack the suspect, as we got nothing so far on this guy. On Ross.
Fuck him. Fuck them both.
Got to be Ross, no matter how he protested even as I punched him in the face. Motherfucker. I punch the wall by the door, once, twice.
Draw a shaky breath that tastes of rage. It’s bitter and makes my chest hurt.
Goddammit, I don’t like it. I don’t like how this is getting progressively worse. If the culprit is Ross, then he’s gone fucking nuts. A psycho. An organized, methodical one.
Psychos are dangerous. He won’t stop at killing a cat, and John has to know that.
Why my family? Why did this freak pick me? Fucking cunt. And what’s with the insinuations about my past—about leaving someone behind? What the hell does he want from me?
Shit, I don’t want my kids, or Octavia, to see the bloody mess outside the door. So I go in, opening the door while doing my best not to get blood on my hands. I lift them up to check once I’m inside, and I find them shaking with adrenaline like a junkie’s.
The living room is empty, but I hear their voices from upstairs. I take the steps two at a time, needing to make sure they’re okay.
I’m home late. It was the earliest I could escape from work, with Jasper breathing down my neck. He seems to be over his misgivings about his son and decided it’s back to pushing Matt’s buttons.
And I have to physically restrain myself from going out of my way to look for Ross and lay in on him until he confesses. The only thing stopping me is John telling me to butt out, but I’m vibrating with rage.
The kids are sitting in their beds, propped on stacks of pillows, coloring books open in front of them.
And Octavia. She’s sitting on Cole’s bed, reading to them from a story book, though she stops when I appear at the door.
Her eyes brighten. She gets up and comes to me, giving me a smile that’s a fucking shot to my brain, bypassing my anger and fear, spreading roots into my chest.
“The kids are much better,” she says. “I think they’ll sleep through the night.”
Her mouth is rosy, a lock of dark hair curls at her pale cheek, and damn, I want to kiss her so badly. I itch to stroke that curl out of her face, tuck it behind her delicate ear with the small golden stud.