“Are you about to start spouting PTSD shit at me right now? Because if you are, you can fucking forget it.” He storms into the room beyond, leaving me standing out in the hallway. Seems I touched a raw nerve. I follow after him, taking in the huge room—clearly his old bedroom—one detail at a time. The place is flooded with the bloody red light of the sunset, pouring in through two walls worth of massive windows. In the center of the room, a huge bed, already made up, dominates the space. There’s not much else in here. A small bookshelf, filled with books. A walk-in closet at the far end of the room. A couple of shelves—
My eyes freeze on the shelves. Three of them, one on top of the other, a foot in between, and evenly spaced on them sit about fifteen snow globes. They’re just like the one I found on the desk back in Rebel’s cabin. I walk straight to them, my eyes skating over each one—Detroit, New York, London, Paris, Vancouver, Calgary, Switzerland, Wyoming. Niagara. Places mostly within the states, but from cities all over the world, too.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“My mother collected them from all the places she went to. I should have boxed them up years ago.” Rebel turns his back on the shelves, crossing the room to look out of the window. Huge, ancient trees choked with Kudzu fill the view beyond.
“Chicago. You have one from Chicago back at your cabin. Was that one of hers as well?”
Rebel remains facing out of the window, but I see his shoulders tense. “Yes.” Doesn’t seem like he’s planning on divulging the significance of that particular snow globe—why Chicago was important enough to take with him, while the others remained behind. I don’t ask, either. His mood is spiraling. First me prying into the army stuff, and now this… If I get too nosy, he’s liable to shut down altogether. My motives for learning as much about him as possible have morphed over the past few days. Originally, I wanted to know so I could tell the police when I eventually manage to report all of this to them. But now, I’m just interested. There’s a drive inside me to break the code that is this complicated, hard-headed, kind-of-annoying man. After the photos on the wall and the obvious love Carl has for him, I’m beginning to see beyond his tattoos and the razor blade-sharp look he carries in his eyes. Could he actually be a good guy?
I need to change the subject. “Did you manage to figure out what you’re going to do about the shooting?” I ask. Probably not the best topic of conversation to put him in a better mood, but I’m curious. I woke up a couple of times after I passed out last night, already feeling shitty from the whiskey, and he was still scribbling away, trying to find a resolution to his problem. After that, I had nightmares that I was trapped inside that Trader Joe’s, scurrying from aisle to aisle, while men wearing Widow Makers cuts stalked me, calling out my name.
“No,” Rebel says, sighing. “Not a good solution, anyway. Not an easy one.”
Nothing about any of this seems easy to me. I hold my tongue, though. “So what are we doing right now? We’re just going to wait here until your father summons us?”
“Yep.”
“Perfect. Because we just love being cooped up in small, enclosed spaces with each other.” I press my fingers into my forehead, sighing heavily.
“I actually don’t mind being cooped up with you, sugar.”
I think he’s being sarcastic again, but when I look up at him, he’s not pulling faces. He looks…he looks like he means it. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I do nothing but complain. How the hell can you find that enjoyable to be around?”
“You’re feisty. I like that. And you give me shit. Not many people feel like they can do that.”
“Probably because they’re tied to a chair, scared for their lives, right?”
He gives that hard laugh again, though this time he actually smiles. Walking away from the window, he sits on the edge of his bed, tipping his head back, sighing. I watch the muscles in his throat work as he speaks. “Guess that all depends on the circumstances of the situation, doesn’t it?”
“So…you have hurt people?”
“Many people, sugar. Many, many people.” He looks at me, his eyes zeroing in on me, unblinking. It’s like he’s daring me to react. Daring me to look away. Daring me to do or say something.
“Was there a good reason for everything you’ve done?”
“I think there was a good reason. But would a judge? Or God? Or you?” He closes his eyes, and I feel it then, stronger than before. I want to do something crazy. I want to comfort him. I want to help him. I want to be closer to him. How is this possible? I feel like crying at my own stupidity. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “Maybe.”
I turn away from him, picking up a snow globe with shaky fingers. I suddenly don’t feel safe anymore, and it isn’t because of Rebel. It’s because of me. Because there must be something seriously wrong with me.
“Are you afraid of heights?” I didn’t hear him standing up. He’s right behind me, so close his breath brushes against the skin of my neck as he speaks. I break out in goosebumps, unable to control the reaction—half fear, half something far more worrying.
Matt. You’re in love with Matt. This man is a self-professed dangerous criminal. You are not attracted to him. You’re just not. “I’m all right with heights. Why do you ask?” Just like my hands, my voice shakes.