Rescuing the Bad Boy (Second Chance #2)(11)

Foreboding. Desolate. Oppressive.

Welcome home.

Involuntarily, he shuddered.

He got out of the car as a floodlight on a sensor lit the side of the house. A big white dog with brown patches appeared from around the corner, its breed a mystery. As a guess, he’d say part Saint Bernard. It lacked the thickness in its body, the thing too skinny and filthy to be owned by anyone. Or maybe it had been Gertrude’s and she’d left it to fend for itself.

That sounded like her.

Donovan stayed still in case the dog was aggressive—wouldn’t that be his luck—but rather than charge him, the beast turned and skulked around back, vanishing into the shadows.

He snapped the roof onto Trixie in case the skies gave into rain, then opened the back hatch, the hinges whining. Two suitcases and a duffel bag were the sum of his luggage for the stay. When he’d packed back in New York, the plan—still the plan as soon as Sofie relocated the dinner—was to stay long enough to clear out the mountains of Gertrude’s crap prior to selling the mansion to Alessandre.

Donovan had planned on hiring someone to clear it out for him, but now that he was in town, may as well do it himself. Hiring someone would be the coward’s way out. The mansion was his load to bear.

Like Sofie, he thought with a frown.

But he wasn’t one to avoid the monsters lurking in the dark. He preferred to deal with things head on. Cheaper than therapy.

Hefting his bags to the covered porch, he dropped the suitcase and dug the house key from his pocket.

A charity for battered children, he thought as he wiggled the key into the lock. His grandmother’s hypocrisy knew no bounds. He heard scurrying in the grass at the side of the house, reminding him he wasn’t exactly alone.

Look at the bright side, you inherited Cujo.

“And I’m not even inside yet.”

When the door wouldn’t budge, he turned his body to the side and slammed a shoulder into it. The frame swelled whenever it rained, and given the state of the soggy, overgrown brush in the flowerbeds, the puddles gathered in the missing cobblestones in the driveway, it had rained earlier today.

The foyer opened to more dark, but he knew the layout. Straight ahead a curved staircase with crimson carpet soared into the darkened second floor. To his left, an equally dark dining hall led to the kitchen where Caroline fixed nearly every meal he’d eaten. To the right…

The library.

Memories of Sofie flashed in his mind. The cushy give of her backside in his palms, the lushness of her lips, the sigh sounding from her throat whenever he kissed her… every inch of her so different from what he’d been used to.

Gentle. Caring. Soft.

No wonder he’d freaked out.

He came back to town to face his demons. His father or grandmother must have tipped them off. They’d gotten the memo and formed a line, coming at him one after the other since he crossed the Ohio border.

He dropped his bags at his feet and took in the curved staircase in front of him. Another memory hit. One where he was sliding down the banister backward, hair flying around his head. The feel of the waistband of his pants cutting into his belly as his father lifted him from the banister and threw him to the floor below.

Donovan’s hand went to his broken collarbone, his eyes straying to the hallway vanishing into the darkness.

The hallway he’d been tearing through after being explicitly instructed not to run indoors. Robert stuck his foot out; Donovan ended up with a chipped front tooth. His tongue brushed the cap there now. That injury, like the others, concealed.

More rooms were visible from the foyer, causing memory after memory to slam into him. And this was only the first floor. There were thirteen bedrooms, eight bathrooms. Thirty-five rooms total. All haunted with memories he thought he’d escaped.

Absently, he rubbed his thumb along the star tattoo on his index finger.

Sofie’s words from earlier surfaced. Open Arms provides emergency shelter and foster care for abused children…

Kids here in the Cove enduring the same horrific treatment he’d endured. Some probably had it worse. A chill skated his spine. Faceless, helpless. Frightened.

Other than Caroline, he had no safe haven when he was a boy. He lied to her about the cuts and bruises, saying he’d fallen off his bike or scraped his arms rock climbing. If she had known the truth, she would have confronted Robert and Gertrude—would have lost her job. The idea of being stuck in this miserable place without her kindness had been unbearable.

As an adult, he’d stopped sugarcoating Gertrude’s and Robert’s actions and named it what it was: abuse. His father harming him, and his grandmother turning a blind eye was… wrong. Simple as that.

It was just as wrong for Donovan to ignore children in need now.

“Shit.” The quietly spoken word bounced off the foyer walls, echoing up the stairs and dissipating into the blackness.

What if an outside party had intervened on his behalf? What would life have been like for him then—for him now—if someone had come to his rescue? Someone who could have championed him when he’d been young enough to be saved.

His past was written. He couldn’t change it. But if he denied Open Arms, and Sofie, the upcoming charity dinner, he was as big a hypocrite as Gertrude.

He pulled a hand over his face in frustrated acceptance.

Robert Pate’s demon lurked in every cobwebbed corner of this place. Knowing he was looking on made Donovan want to defy him. Because f*ck him.