Pen Pal(40)

He’s not going to tell me what’s wrong.

I sigh again, foreseeing a lot of this silent nonsense in our future.

“May I please have permission to tell you that you’re a pain in the ass?”

A hint of humor surfaces in the dark depths of his eyes. “Careful, sweet rabbit.”

I blink innocently. “Oh, did I not do that right?”

He lowers his lids and gazes at me as a dangerous growl rumbles through his chest.

“Okay, fine. I’ll be good.” Smiling, I give him a peck on the lips. “Can we go see your house now? I can’t wait to find out what kind of place a lion king builds for himself. I hope you remembered to leave space on the walls to hang all the bunny rabbit pelts you must’ve collected.”

Releasing his fists from my hair, he cups my face and kisses me softly.

“The walls are bare,” he murmurs. “I never wanted to catch a bunny before now.”

Inside my belly, a million tiny butterflies take flight all at once.

They drop to the ground, killed by a sudden arctic freeze, when Aidan adds firmly, “But it’s time for you to go home.”

I grumble, “Wow, talk about a buzz kill. I see all that time you spent in charm school was a total waste of money.”

“You said you need to work. I won’t get in the way of that. And use that smart tone with me again, and you’ll earn yourself—”

“I know. A spanking.”

“No. You like it too much. It’s a reward. Next time you sass me, you’ll be punished.”

I assess his serious face with narrowed eyes. “Punished how?”

“Try me and find out.”

He smiles at my poisonous expression. Then he sets me on my feet, stands, and walks me to the front door.

Opening it, he says, “I’ll talk to you soon. In the meantime,” he gives my ass a swat, “stay out of trouble.”

He leans down, gives me a firm, quick kiss, pushes me over the threshold, then shuts the door in my face.

Miffed, I shout, “Goodbye, Aidan!”

From the other side of the door comes a low laugh. “See you later, Kayla.”

I head down the stairs to the parking lot, wondering why he never says the word goodbye and why he avoided my questions about it both times I asked him.

More mysteries to add to his growing collection.

I’m lost in thought as I get in the car and start it, but freeze when I see what’s sitting on the dashboard above the steering wheel.

A 1937 D-type buffalo nickel.





21





I stare at the coin with my heart palpitating and my mind recoiling as if it spotted a rattlesnake.

After a while when I get up my nerve, I reach for it with a trembling hand. It feels abnormally cold in my fingers, as if it’s been stored in a freezer.

But it hasn’t been in a freezer. It’s been where I left it, in a drawer in my office desk.

And now it’s here.

In my car.

The car parked outside the bar that Aiden lives above.

I glance around, but there’s no one in sight. The parking lot and sidewalks are deserted. There are a few cars parked along the street, but they’re down a block or so, near a bakery.

Truly frightened, I stare at the coin again.

One of only two things happened here. Either I took it from my office drawer and don’t remember doing that—or leaving it on the dash—or someone else took it from the drawer and left it here for me to find.

Which makes no sense. Who would do that? And why?

Starting to shake, I drop the coin into the cupholder between the front seats and reach behind the passenger seat for my purse. I only brought the key inside to Aidan’s with me last night, but now I can’t be certain if I locked the car doors or not. Did I unlock them a moment ago?

I don’t know. I don’t remember.

How can I not remember?

As I dig into my purse for my cell phone, my panic builds. I navigate to the security app and load it. I curse when I realize I’ll have to rewind about twelve hours of video feed to see if anyone was in the house while I was gone.

“But that can’t be possible,” I whisper. “The alarm would’ve been triggered.”

Which means I would have received a call from Jake’s security company, but there isn’t one. The notifications are blank.

So the only remaining possibility is that I left the coin here and forgot.

I lean my forehead against the steering wheel, close my eyes, and take deep breaths, trying not to hyperventilate.

This memory problem has to be caused by more than stress, but I’m extremely wary of doctors. Both my parents’ deaths were caused by medical misdiagnosis. My mother’s when her doctor misdiagnosed her lung cancer symptoms as asthma, and my father’s when his doctor told him those chest pains he’d been having for the past twelve hours were nothing more than heartburn. The doctor prescribed antacids, when in fact the culprit was a heart attack. By the time Dad was admitted to the emergency room, it was too late.

And didn’t I read somewhere that most deadly infections people get are picked up inside hospitals?

“You need help,” I tell myself. “Stop rationalizing.”

But what would I even tell a doctor? “Hi, I’m Kayla! I’ve been hearing strange noises in my house, jars fly out of my kitchen cupboards on their own, my memory has more holes in it than a spaghetti strainer, I’ve got a new pen pal in prison, and I started an intense sexual affair three weeks after my husband died with a man who calls me his bunny rabbit!”