“Anything else? Any clue who might be leaving the messages and harassing Octavia?”
“Well, Alina wasn’t married, and there doesn’t seem to have been another boyfriend after you. Her parents live in St. Louis. There is a brother and a sister living in St. Louis and Tucson, respectively. No criminal records.”
“Christ, she never told me anything about a brother and a sister.”
John hums. “Different mother. And like I said, they live in a different town. In any case, Hansen, your theory doesn’t answer the question of why here, why now.”
No, it doesn’t.
“It has to be one of the siblings,” I tell him, thinking out loud. “My money’s on the brother. Check where he is at now, and I dunno, his bank activities, or whatever else you can think of.”
“So, what, you’re a cop now? Gonna tell me how to run an investigation?”
Ooh, John is grumpy today. “Why, got any better ideas, Johnny boy? If so, let me know.”
“Stay out of this, Hansen. I’ve got it.”
Yeah, sure. I get that he doesn’t like me butting in, but it’s not like he has turned up anything so far, and excuse me if I’m running low on fucks right about now.
It’s my family that’s at stake. My girl, too.
My girl… Fuck. There it is again, the admission, and with it the gut-clenching fear that something could happen to her, and then…
And then what the hell am I gonna do, and how will I go on living?
When Octavia arrives in the morning, in her pretty dress and heels, her dark hair tumbling on her shoulders like silk, a light in her eyes, I fight it.
It’s her own sake, her own safety. I fight what I want, what I need. I’m trying to do what’s best for her. I even think about firing her, but I can’t.
I fucking can’t. My kids need her. Love her.
I… Shit. What am I gonna do?
She comes close to me, smiling, and I inhale her sweet scent before I realize what I’m doing. I’m fucking reaching for her, about to draw her in my arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like I’ve been doing it for years.
But then I see the red mark on her pale throat, the scratch on her cheek, and all I want is to put my fist through a wall. Because otherwise I’ll go around punching random people, and that’s frowned upon in society, or so I’m told.
Hell.
So I just grunt at her when she greets me, and I’m out the fucking door before she has a chance to get closer.
Pretending I don’t notice the hurt in her eyes. It stabs me in the chest, twists inside my heart like a rusty switchblade.
So I throw myself into work, my cell phone stuffed in my pocket in case John calls with a breakthrough. I slide under the car I’m working on, losing myself in the intricacies of the engine, trying to fix it—since I can’t fix my life.
Since I can’t solve the riddle all the way, can’t reach the heart of the maze and catch the monster.
Capture it.
Punish it.
Instead I’m punishing myself, not that it’s anything new.
And I’m hurting her. For the thousandth time in these past weeks I wonder if she feels something for me.
Whatever that is. I can’t hope…
No, I fucking can’t. I’m seriously fucked in the head if I think she might feel anything for me. Yet letting her go hurts worse than a broken bone. If her life wasn’t in danger… That’s the only reason I’m not driving home right the hell now to take her in my arms.
As for what people must be saying behind my back, fuck, I’ve never cared about that. I’ve got that going for me. I don’t give a shit what they think about me.
It was the same thing when Emma died, when I couldn’t weep for her, couldn’t stay in the town we called our home, when I lost myself in medication and booze.
When I left and ended up here, without a job, or a goal, taking the kids with me. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.
But what about Octavia? She has to care what the wagging tongues say behind her back. She has lived here all her life. Her family is here, her friends. The bullies that hurt her.
She doesn’t need more teasing, more bullying. It’s the last thing she needs.
I am the last fucking thing she could ever need. Just because I need her… just because she’s sweet and nice and curious about sex, that doesn’t mean anything.
Fuck. I slam my fist against the metal over my head, wishing I could go get shitfaced and forget this mind-twister.
“Hey, dude, you okay?” Evan taps my feet that are sticking out from under the car. “What are you doing down there? Sounds like you’re dismantling the damn engine.”
“Go away,” I grunt.
“Back to grunting, I see.” Evans leans against the car, all fucking nonchalance, his dusty sneakers level with my head. “I thought you were over that.”
I consider grunting again just because. “Fuck off, Evan.”
“Uh-uh. You’re the grumpiest bastard I’ve ever known. What’s up? Tell your buddy.”
“You ain’t no buddy of mine.”
“But you’re my friend,” he says simply, and it stops me in my tracks.
Jesus.
What is it with this little town in the middle of nowhere that makes people so damn nice? Must be something in the water.
And why is it I got something in my eye and I have trouble swallowing?
“Whatever,” I mutter, and find myself smiling in spite of my foul mood. “Did you want something? Trying to get some fucking work done here.”
“Well…” His sneakers scuff on the concrete floor as he turns. “Octavia’s boyfriend is here. Well, the non-boyfriend.” He snickers.
Anger washes through me in a shocking, sudden wave. “The fuck.”
“I swear to God, he’s standing right across from me. Brought his car for repairs, looks like.”
“And you thought I had to know? See if I’ll come out and punch his fucking lights out? Give you a good show?”
“Nah.” He drums his fingers on the car. “I thought I’d poke the beast. See if I can get you out of that weird funk you’re in. Sometimes a bit of rage helps.”
As if I’m not furious already. Can you cure rage with rage?
But I pull myself out from under the car and climb to my feet, wiping my grimy hands on a rug, and take a look at the guy who’s held Octavia’s hand and ate ice cream with her. He’s all young and skinny and damn girly. Ugly as fuck.
Or he will be, after I’m done rearranging his face with my fists.
“Why are you so mad at him?” Evan fishes out a pack of smokes from his back pocket and offers me one. I take it, slip it behind my ear. “You said it yourself. He’s not her boyfriend.”
“Not for lack of trying,” I growl. “Motherfucker.”
“Don’t tell me you feel threatened by a baby like him.”
I grab the front of Evan’s sweaty T-shirt. “Maybe you want my fist in your face.”
Evan doesn’t look impressed. “So?”
“I don’t like him. Little shit shouldn’t even be allowed near Tay.”
“So now it’s Tay, huh?” Evan wags his brows. “Girl got under your skin, didn’t she?”