“You were with me when you had the first dream, the one about Simon Smith killing Courtney Miller. You got up out of your hospital bed and walked down the hallway and stared out a window. The second dream, I found you running up the driveway in the middle of the night. The last dream, I found you slumped on your bedroom floor, staring at nothing.”
He was throwing her a lifeline, but she could only grab on with one shaky hand. Part of what he said made sense. She had thought she’d been to Prospectus Prairie Park. She had thought she’d been to Sunny County Children’s Services. But she hadn’t. Not really. But Gran… Those terrible memories had teeth that bit her to the bone.
“You weren’t physically there when your grandmother died. There was a suspicious vehicle parked at the end of the driveway that night. The BCI lifted prints off the front door that don’t belong to any of us. They are analyzing the bedding for DNA. I know it’s hard to wrap your brain around, took me interrogating those two yahoos before I’d believe it. There’s no other logical explanation.” He spoke from right behind her.
“You call that logical?” There might’ve been a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
“I threw out logical the moment I found you in that trailer. I’m operating on the what-feels-right theory. I know you loved your grandmother. I know you would never let her get hurt. I know that, and deep down you do too.”
Her vision went sloshy. “Then why”—she said that word with cynicism—“why did William Goodspeed and everyone else in that dream live but Gran had to die?”
“Baby, I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers. I’m muddling through this too.”
That bit of honesty tipped the scales in her mind and she believed him. He stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her. She leaned against him, hugging those arms that held her safe and secure.
And finally, she completely, wholeheartedly believed him. “But why would a priest kill Gran?”
A soft, faltering knock on the door stole Xander’s response. He let go of her and walked across the room to answer the door. Void of his touch, she felt as if she’d gone from being warmed by the sun to freezing on the dark side of the moon. She wrapped her arms around her waist, a poor imitation of how Xander held her.
She watched him open the door. Watched shock knock him back half a step before he caught himself, visibly braced, then said, “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Chapter 16
“I’d tell you to get off my property, but it’s technically fucking yours.” The venom in Xander’s voice was potent enough to take down a bull elephant.
With those words, she knew who must be standing there.
Alex.
One moment Isleen was clear across the room; the next, she pushed in next to Xander, primed and ready to provide support, backup, and a united front against the man who had never been a dad to Xander and who had verbally attacked her.
But the man standing on the porch didn’t look like the Alex she’d met. The one she’d met had eyes that didn’t see and showed no emotion—beyond anger at her and affection for Gran. This guy’s face was pure expression. This guy looked like he’d endured multiple lifetimes of torment, and the memories were too morbidly obese for one man to keep hauling around. His eyes were a luminous light blue that seemed backlit from the bloodshot shine of unexpressed tears. Deep worry furrows lined his forehead and slashed down either side of his mouth. His thick gray hair was slicked back straight and severe, like a punishment.
Xander put his arm around her, drawing her to him as if ready to shield her from his own father. It made her look weak, but she didn’t care. She leaned in to him, enjoying how utterly safe and protected she felt. Alex wasn’t going to be able to hurt her because in this moment she felt absolutely invincible.
“Xan—” Alex’s timid tone overflowed with remorse and repentance.
Xander’s arm cinched her tighter against his body, almost as if he were seeking comfort from holding on to her.
“Oh no. Don’t you even. Don’t you even go there in your damned head. I don’t want to hear it.” Xander’s voice was a blade, stabbing each word toward his father. “No apology, no amount of sorry-my-bad is going to fucking fix what you broke over twenty-five years ago. No fucking way.”
“Xan—” Alex held his hands up in a cops-and-robbers way of surrendering.
“You want to make me happy? Go back to pretending I don’t exist.” Xander stepped forward, neatly ushered her in behind him, and looked out on the porch. “Hopkins, escort him off my porch and don’t let him come knocking again.”
There was someone out there? She peeked around Xander to see a middle-aged man in oddly oversized pants and a baggy dress shirt step up to Alex. “Mr. Stone, you need to leave. Now.” Hopkins’ voice wasn’t intimidating, but the bulky gun strapped on his belt was a clear warning not to mess with him.