Brooke shut the dishwasher and looked up. “Everything okay?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
She stilled. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Something’s going on with her.”
“We just had a pretty long conversation. Without betraying any confidences, I can say that she has quite a few bad memories from Afghanistan. A lot of stuff that weighs heavy on her.”
He nodded. “I get that. Especially when that kid almost blew up the hospital. And I get that she talks to you about that more than she would me. I also respect that you won’t say anything that might be a betrayal of her confidence. But this is more. It’s this stalker thing she mentioned . . . that worries me.”
“I don’t like it, either.”
“Don’t like what?” Sarah asked, carrying her plate to the sink.
“The idea that Heather may have a stalker and she’s not taking it seriously.”
Sarah’s gaze snapped back and forth between the two of them. “So it’s not just me who thinks she should be way more concerned than she is?”
Travis frowned. “No, it’s not just you.”
“When she was waving it off and saying it wasn’t a big deal, she was pretty convincing, but she was . . .”
“Too convincing?” Travis asked.
Sarah nodded. “Exactly. Like she was working hard to not only convince us but herself as well.”
“Then we need to do something.”
“I agree,” Asher said from the doorway. “But what? You guys know Heather better than I do, but even I know how private she is. She doesn’t ask for help and won’t appreciate interference. Not even from us.”
“Unless she was asking for help in a very Heather way,” Brooke said.
“By bringing up the subject, telling us the situation, then waving it off, all the while knowing we’d be concerned enough to do something?” Travis tried to relax the sudden tightness in his jaw. He’d already made up his mind that he was going to be her shadow whether she liked it or not. And if he was watching her, hopefully he’d catch sight of anyone else who might be doing the same.
Brooke nodded. “Doing it that way allows her to feel in control, feel like she’s able to handle it on her own without actually asking. Even though she did. Ask, I mean. Even though . . . she . . . didn’t.” She drew in a deep breath. “Man, that’s confusing, but you know what I mean.”
Gavin walked into the kitchen wrapped in one of the robes, his dark hair and short beard glistening with water drops. “Oh good, you’re all here. Listen, I can’t relax. I think we need to talk about Heather. I don’t like this whole bit about a stalker. We need to do something whether she likes it or not.”
Short chuckles, devoid of humor, scattered through the room, and Gavin raised a brow. “Don’t tell me. That’s what y’all have just been talking about.”
“Well, that settles it,” Travis said. “We need to come up with a quick plan.” He paused. “And then I’m going to head over to her house to camp out on her doorstep.”
CHAPTER
THREE
Heather pulled into the garage and sat in her vehicle while the door lowered behind her. Apparently, this was going to be her night for sitting in her car and thinking. Spilling her guts to everyone, especially Brooke, had stirred up the memories and was going to make sleeping difficult, if not downright impossible. She had three shows she could watch, she could scroll mindlessly through social media, or she could go into work and see if anyone needed her.
But she was tired and had a long day tomorrow, which would require rest. A headache started to form over her right eye, and she pressed against the spot. If she took her migraine medicine, she’d sleep until morning.
But what if her stalker came back and she was too drugged to know? A shudder rippled through her.
She took yet another moment to gather her thoughts and emotions while contemplating Brooke’s observation that Heather didn’t overreact—and the fact that she didn’t like to be out of control of anything. Her life, her job, her emotions.
Okay, so that was true.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. Lord, I’m at a loss here. Things are spinning out of control and I don’t like it. I know you know that. I need your help to figure out who this guy is. And I need some sense of control. Please? She paused. “But if you can’t give me control, give me the ability to deal with it, because you and I both know I have control issues.”
Denying that would be silly. The foster system had taught her no one was trustworthy and she couldn’t rely on anyone but herself. That trait was so fiercely ingrained in her that it even overwhelmed reason at times. Like this one. And she’d let it bleed over into pushing Travis away when she wanted to pull him closer. A fierce rage welled from deep within. Rage at her father, at the foster system she’d hated, at life. Stunned at the wave of emotion, she swallowed it and did her best to focus on what she knew instead of how she felt.
Fortunately, over the years, the Army and her friends had shown her a different perspective than the voice in her head. They’d shown her how to rely on them—and God. However, that didn’t mean she didn’t occasionally fall into her old habits—or that expressing herself came easy. But she really did trust those in her inner circle, which was probably why she’d allowed herself to say so much tonight. Putting herself out there, asking for help, and being vulnerable was hard—practically impossible—for her. “Which is why you chickened out, you big baby.”
Unable to find the words to express what she really wanted, she’d simply shut down. She chalked it up to being rattled from the race across the yard in the effort to confront the person now making her life one big basket of tension.
Which was who?
The one person she thought it might be was still in prison. She’d checked that first thing. He had a parole hearing coming up in a month, and she planned to be there just like all the other times to remind the board why the man should not be released. And he’d glare at her while muttering dire things she’d suffer when he did get out.
With a low growl of frustration, she shoved out of the SUV and slammed the door. The chill of the garage pressed in and she shivered. At least whoever was watching her didn’t seem to be dangerous.
Yet.
In the kitchen, she disarmed the security alarm, then rearmed the system. She placed her purse on the counter and the emptiness smothered her. “I need to get a cat,” she muttered. “Or a goldfish.” With her hours at the hospital, a dog was out of the question, but a cat might be okay.
Next to the kitchen was the laundry room, and she tossed her wet suit and towel in the dryer before heading to the cabinet for a mug. Coffee would help. Wouldn’t help her sleep, but she wasn’t going to be able to do that anytime soon, so why not?
She paused as another chill passed over her. Why was it so cold in her house?
With a frown, she walked into the hall and found the thermostat still set on seventy-one. Warm enough to keep the house comfortable without being stuffy. The furnace was running—she felt the heat through a nearby duct—but the indoor temperature readout showed sixty-five.