I have it now, though fat lot of good it’ll do me since the attacker is thankfully gone.
Then—holy shit—there’s a rattle at the front door.
The son of a bitch is back? Rage bubbles through me, overtaking the rising fear, and I rush forward. I rip open the door and level the gun right at his face. “No way, you fucker.”
“Jesus Christ, Jo, it’s me.”
Red is standing in front of me with his hands up in the air. At least that’s what my brain registers in that moment. But somehow he’s moved, because a half-second later, his hands are no longer in the air, they’re around me, and the gun is in his hand.
“If I could do that, so could whoever the hell you meant to be pointing that thing at.” His voice is hard, and I can hear both anger and concern.
“I thought you were a bad guy.”
“Then why the fuck didn’t you run out the back?”
I start to sob. I don’t know. I should have. I know that. My father always said the gun was a last resort. But my husband’s dead, and I don’t know why, and a stranger attacked me, wanting something that Mel had. I have no idea what’s going on, and I don’t like it. Worst of all, I’m scared.
But I don’t say anything or any of that to Red. Instead, I simply look into his eyes, then choke on tears as I say, “I’m having a really bad day.”
Chapter Six
“You’re bleeding,” Red says. His finger brushes my upper lip, and I shiver, turning my face away, embarrassed by how much I want to lean into him. To let him comfort me and wash away my fears.
“It’s just a scratch. I’ll be okay.” I sniffle. The truth is, all I really want to do is curl up and cry and pretend like none of this is happening.
Instead, I tilt my head back, searching his face through the blur of tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I almost shot you, and I’m sorry I’m a mess. I just have no idea what’s going on.”
“Come on.” His voice is as gentle as the palm he presses against my back. “Let’s get you settled.”
He shuts the door and leads me to the couch, then sits me down. I curl my legs up under me in the corner, then pull a pillow into my lap. He’s sitting sideways, facing me, and when he bends forward, for one strange moment, I think he’s going to kiss me.
Stranger still, I think I want him to, if only so that I can slip outside of myself, and for a few glorious, blissful moments, forget the hell that has become my world.
But he’s not kissing me. Instead, he’s looking at my lip. He pulls a tissue from the box on the table and dabs gently at it. I bite my lower lip, but the reaction isn’t because of pain. It’s because of him—this broad-shouldered man who had once been the focus of my fantasies. A soldier who has seen wounds much worse than mine, now treating me so gently.
A man who, because of grief or loss or lingering terror, has slid quite inappropriately into my thoughts.
I turn away, afraid he can read the truth in my eyes. “It’s fine.”
“It will be,” he agrees. “It’s barely a scratch. But facial wounds always bleed a lot. Does it hurt?”
I shake my head, then realize I’m crying, as if in contrast to my negative response. “No. No it doesn’t hurt. I just ... God, Red. I’m a mess.” I draw in a shuddering breath. “I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“I know.” He puts down the tissue and leans forward, taking my hands. “Let’s take this one step at a time.”
I swallow and nod.
“Tell me what happened before I came. How did you cut your lip? Was someone here? Is that why you got the gun?”
I can tell from his tone that he already knows—or at least suspects—the answer.
“There—there was a man…”
I’m mortified to realize my throat is thick with tears, some of which are now streaming down my cheeks. I pull one hand free and wipe my eyes. “I’m sorry. My emotions are all over the place.”
“Of course they are.” His voice is as soft as a caress. “It’s okay, Jo. Whoever was here is gone now.”
I shiver. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“I think I do. Part of it, anyway. I’ll tell you everything. But I need you to go first. Can you do that for me?”
His voice is soft but steady, as if he’s explaining something important to a child. The tone irritates me—not because he’s talking down to me, but because I’m actually melting down.
Get it together, girl.
“Yes,” I say firmly. “I can do that.” I draw a deep breath, then begin. “I have no idea why, but some guy jumped me when I was letting Rambo in.” I pull my hands free from Red’s, needing to hug myself. “I—I didn’t see much. He was all in black.”
“He?”
I nod. “I think so. At least that’s what his voice sounded like. I’d be surprised if it was a woman.”
“So he talked to you, what did he say?”
“It was about Mel—something about Mel having something. He said, ‘Where are they,’ and then he said he wanted the package Mel took.”
As I speak, a horrible thought comes to me, and I’m about to share it with Red. But he speaks first.
“They? You’re sure he said they?”
I think back, then nod, chills creeping up my spine. “Yes, yes. I’m sure. But Red,” I say, hurrying on. “I just realized — I mean, what if it wasn’t suicide? Maybe somebody murdered Mel to get this thing.”
Red looks at me for so long, I begin to think I’d tossed out the most ridiculous theory ever. Then his face seems to crumple, and I see tears in his eyes.
“You’re right,” he says, his voice thick. “They murdered him, but he never told them where it is. The murder must have been a mistake,” he adds, his voice soft, as if he’s working through something. “Kill him, the thing is lost. Unless you or I know where it is.”
He’s looking at me now, but I can only shake my head, completely confused. “You’re saying you think I’m right? Then we should call the police. They need—”
“No.” He grabs my wrist, preventing me from reaching for my phone.
I try to tug my hand back, but he holds on tight. “Red, you’re scaring me.”
“You can’t tell the cops it was murder.”
“Why?” My head is spinning, and I’m not sure if it’s because this entire conversation is confusing or if I’m overwhelmed by the events of the day.
“Because the killers told me not to.”
“They attacked you?”
“No—well, yes. But this was before that. They made it clear that the cops need to keep believing this was suicide.”
“Oh.” I swallow as that settles in. “Oh,” I repeat, then hug myself as icy fear cuts through me. “I think you need to start at the beginning.”
He does, telling me how Mel asked to meet him, but didn’t show up. At least, that was what Red believed until he found my husband’s body in the mash.
“And they called you?”