Whisper Falls (25 page)

“Meow
,” the cat said, as if answering her.

That’s when Amy poked her head around to look. “What did she do?”

As Tessa explained, she gently hugged Brontë against her and began stroking her neck. And then . . . “Oh wow, now she’s even purring,” Tessa told Amy with a smile.

That’s when Amy let her gaze narrow, and Tessa could almost see the wheels turning in her friend’s brain. “You should adopt her.”

Tessa blinked. “What?”

“Don’t act like it’s a crazy idea. You’re getting attached to her, and she’s not nuzzling and purring with
me
. And wouldn’t you like having a nice kitty around the house? I can’t imagine how lonely
I’d
get without Mr. Knightley.”

Although Tessa liked animals, she’d never really considered getting a pet. But maybe the suggestion made sense. Though she wasn’t prone to loneliness, she might enjoy having Brontë as a cabinmate. At least when she was acting fairly normal like this and not freaking out around everything that moved.

Only . . . a pet was a big responsibility, one she wouldn’t take lightly. Even if she
would
take steps to make sure her own pet didn’t become as spoiled and needy as Amy’s.

And then a much bigger deterrent hit her, taking the wind out of her mental sails. “What about when I have flare-ups? I’m not sure I could care for a cat when I feel rotten, and I wouldn’t want to neglect her.”

Amy shrugged. “Cats are easy. Mr. Knightley isn’t because I’ve been a smidge too indulgent with him.”

A smidge?
Tessa hid her smile. Then looked back down at the purring kitty still in her arms. “But this cat might
not
be easy. I mean, yeah, she’s all cuddly today, but who knows how she’ll be a week from now?”

Amy nodded, clearly seeing her point. “A skittish cat can be tough. But you should think about it.” She gave her head a tilt. “Think about how you would feel if you came in to work one day and I told you someone
else
had adopted Brontë.”

At the mere thought, Tessa’s stomach pinched up. But she tried to ignore that, and said, “I’m just not sure I’d want to have to worry about
her
at times when I’m busy worrying about
me
.”

T
he week after Lucky reconciled with his parents, he found himself on a wild roller-coaster ride of emotions.

His parents had stayed in town and he’d had dinner with them twice at Mike’s—although each time, Mike had continued to be quiet and surly. The second time, Tessa and Rachel came, too, which helped, and sort of gave him that unexpected family feeling again, but Mike’s suspicious gaze had constantly reminded him that he still had secrets—bad ones. And the look in Mike’s eye said he was determined to figure those secrets
out
—yet the only way
that
would occur would be if Lucky told him, which wasn’t gonna happen.

As planned, Johnny had come to his house, and things had gone well. He loved his room, especially the mural, and seemed as fascinated as Tessa had by Lucky’s work. They’d spent time playing a NASCAR game on Lucky’s computer, then Tessa had joined them for a ride past the various Romo landmarks, and they’d grabbed a quick pizza in Crestview before taking him home. “Next time I come over, Dad,” he’d said, “maybe I could stay overnight in my new room.” Lucky had tried to act all cool about it, but his heart had nearly crumbled in his chest.

The night after that, his mother had taken him to see his Grandma Romo, who’d made a huge tray of lasagna and kept stuffing him with it in between kissing his cheek and telling him over and over in her thick Italian accent, “It is so good to have my Jonathan back home again.” It had felt weird being called that after so long—she’d been the only person in his life as a kid who’d never taken to calling him Lucky. And even if she drove him a little crazy, and had given him hell over “those terrible tattoos,” he couldn’t deny being glad to see her again. She’d been good to him when he was a little boy—he remembered her noticing him a little more, looking out for him a little more, than most people had after Anna’s disappearance.

Once the whirlwind week of “family time” was past, though, and his parents had finally flown back to Florida, he’d found himself thinking:
Whoa
. How had all this happened so fast?

The truth was, he felt as if he’d lost control, as if everything was closing in on him—and he needed some serious downtime, needed to get some space. It was the only way to find any balance with all the damn
talking
he was doing these days, all the
relationships
he was suddenly having with people. So he just stayed home and worked. He didn’t go to Gravediggers, and he didn’t even see much of Tessa.

Fortunately, the timing was good—she expected to be busy this week, putting in extra hours at the bookstore due to some kind of May Day festival in town that he was happy to avoid, and he’d also gotten her another potential job. After Duke had come over and seen what she’d done to his place, he’d approached her about making some improvements to the bar.

The problem with getting some space, though, was that it gave Lucky time to think. And when he took a big step back and looked at it all, he was forced to realized that he felt . . . torn.

What he had now was . . . well, the closest he’d ever get to having the things he’d envisioned as a boy, and the things most people wanted: the love of his family, a nice kid, work he enjoyed, and a woman who made him happy. But at the same time, it wore him out. Inside. He wasn’t used to spending time with people. He wasn’t used to being responsible to anyone but himself.

And he wasn’t used to . . .
caring
so damn much. About
all
of them.

And at moments . . . hell, it shamed him to admit it, even to himself, but he kept suffering that itchy urge . . . to run, to leave it all behind, just like he had once before—the same as he’d felt that night after reconciling with his parents. Every time the impulse struck, he just shut his eyes, leaned back his head, and tried to will it away.

What was
wrong
with him? Why couldn’t he just be grateful for all the good things in his life? Why couldn’t he lose this nagging feeling that kept dogging him?

Because you’re scared. Scared you won’t measure up. Scared if they really knew everything about you that they’d hate you. Even Tessa.

And you’re scared
for
them
,
too. You’re scared for them in the way you used to be scared for yourself—you’re scared your past will somehow come back to hurt them
,
endanger them.

It was funny—sometimes, the more people who came into his world, the harder it was to remember the hazards of his old life. But at strange, stark, almost surreal moments, it made it harder to
forget
the hazards, too. He wished he’d never seen Red Thornton again, wished the mere sight of the guy hadn’t brought those unpleasant memories back, full force.

Finally, after the tension inside him had risen so high that he feared it might smother him, he did something he hated doing—something he’d been avoiding for weeks now even as it had floated around the back of his mind. But he had to know.

Picking up his living room phone, he dialed the number he’d used to reach Red when painting his bike. When Red answered, he sounded far too happy to hear from Lucky—which Lucky had expected, so he nipped it in the bud by saying, “Listen, Red, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
Putting it off
was more accurate, but the question burned inside him now, making it so he couldn’t dodge it for even one more minute. “I was wondering how Vicki is. Or was. When you left the club. I know it’s been a while, but . . .”

Just say she was fine. Or maybe that she’d gotten smart and left Bill.
Anything to put his mind at ease. But when Red hesitated a second, Lucky’s stomach sank and he almost knew—even before Red said it. “Well, gosh, Lucky . . . Vicki’s dead.”

Lucky’s gut hollowed and he pressed his lips together tight, trying to steel himself against the news. “How?” was all he could force out.

Red let out a sigh, and Lucky realized the answer was going to be as grim as the news itself. And when Red spoke, his voice came softer than usual. “Cause of death was an overdose,” he said. “But she was in an alley when they found her, beat up damn bad.”

“So Wild Bill killed her,” Lucky said, struggling to breathe, sound normal. It felt like somebody had just loaded a pile of bricks onto his chest. “He beat the hell out of her, then he pumped her full of drugs to cover it up.”

“Bill told the cops she’d been hangin’ with some stoners, and that they musta shot up together and then things musta turned violent. Cops
suspected
Bill—but couldn’t pin it on him.”

Lucky stayed quiet after that, trying to absorb it, wrap his head around it. Vicki was dead; Bill had killed her. He began to fear he would vomit. And it wasn’t that he’d cared for Vicki deeply—it was just that it was sad. And that it added to those old remnants of worry still floating around inside him.

He heard Red on the other end of the line, changing the subject, saying something about the paint job on his bike, but Lucky just said, “I gotta go, Red,” and hung up.

Then he let out a long sigh and ran his hands back through his hair. Shit.

Maybe this didn’t matter. Maybe it didn’t affect his life even one little bit. Yet he couldn’t help letting it heap new coal onto the fire of his fears.
Irrational
fears? Yeah, sure, probably. But
damn
, it made him want to run. It made him want to get on his bike and ride so fucking far away that no one could ever find him, that no one could ever,
ever
be hurt because of him. He’d done nothing to cause Vicki’s death, but once upon a time, he
had
caused her to be hurt. Sort of. It all depended on how you looked at it.

Aw, hell. How long would he last like this—before he really did it one day, before he really got on his Harley and started riding and didn’t come back? How long would it be before he hurt people again by running away?

I
t was on Thursday as he worked that he realized he hadn’t talked to Tessa in a while—at least a couple of days. And maybe that was best. Even if, when he reached a good stopping point now, he found himself putting down his paint gun to walk outside. The day was warm and bright, and blooming redbud trees decorated the woods in purple. When he saw her sedan in the driveway, he knew she was home. And he wondered what she was doing. But he ignored the impulse to find out.

Because he was still just as overwhelmed by all the changes in his life as he’d been a few days ago. And because finding out Vicki was dead was still making him a little sick inside, still creating that knot of fear in his belly. He knew one thing had nothing to do with the other, that Vicki’s death and Tessa were about as far apart as two things could be, yet in his mind, he couldn’t stop linking them.

Probably the best thing you could do is back away from this relationship now. Keep it casual. Slow it down.

He’d decided it was safe to come here, and ultimately he’d decided it was safe to let more and more people—like Tessa—into his life. But it was all happening awful quick now, and the truth was, if something did go wrong, if something bad came back from his past, what would he do? He’d stepped up for his son, determined to protect him if it ever came to that. And then his family had entered the picture and so he’d had to step up for them, too. But hell. He couldn’t protect
everybody
. Could he? So maybe Tessa—as amazing as she was—was the part he needed to back away from a little bit.

Or maybe it was about more than that, about the other part—the part about him not measuring up. With his kid, his parents—they were joined by blood, always would be. And his parents had already proven they’d be there for him, they’d already forgiven the unforgivable. But with Tessa—what really tied her to him? What really kept her from waking up one day and realizing he wasn’t right for her, or good enough for her? Maybe backing away from her a little was about protecting
himself
, too.

I
t wasn’t until later, just before dark, that he glanced out the front window toward her house once more and realized that . . . aw, crap—overwhelmed or not, he missed her. He missed her and, despite himself, he’d had enough space now. Space she didn’t even know he was taking. He felt like a shit for everything in his head that she didn’t even know about.

Her car was still there, and he’d seen no movement at her place all day—so despite himself, he decided to walk down and say hi. He didn’t particularly like the idea that he’d suddenly become a guy who could get that caught up in a chick, but he was definitely caught up in Tessa—no point in denying it.

Yet the cabin felt . . . weirdly quiet upon Lucky’s approach. He guessed he’d just grown used to seeing her out watering her flowers on the deck or checking her mail, or to hearing music waft through open windows. But everything felt strangely still tonight.

Rather than knock on the back door as he sometimes did, he walked around to the front. He pressed the doorbell and listened to the muffled sound of it ringing on the other side. Then he waited. But no one answered.

Huh. What the hell was
that
about? He shifted his weight from one work boot to the other, then pressed the bell again, longer this time, to make sure she heard it. And he experienced a definite twinge of relief when footsteps approached on the other side.

When Tessa answered, she wore her sexy little Hot Stuff shirt with a pair of cute drawstring shorts. But her hair looked messy—half of it falling out of a ponytail—and her skin pale, especially for a girl who got out in the sun a lot. Her face appeared drawn, her eyes tired. And Lucky’s heart sank to his stomach. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She gave her head a short shake that appeared to require more effort than it should have.