Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(30)

Because Gwen says no, she can’t marry me. Not yet.

We sleep next to each other, but there’s space in the middle, and a lot more between us than that. I rise early and hit the shower; I run the entire night through my head, from reading her ex-husband’s words to the exact moment that Gwen first melted and then shattered my heart, and I don’t know how to process any of it. I really don’t. We’re off the map.

Here lie goddamn monsters.





7

GWEN

The next day still dawns, however unlikely it seems. When I wake up, he’s already left the bed.

I hate myself, because I remember that exact moment—no, the second—that I broke Sam’s heart. I feel like a horrible bitch, even though I knew exactly what I was doing, and why.

Sam does nothing without a reason . . . but sometimes he doesn’t really recognize that. I do. The proposal was an impulsive, rash move, done partly because he meant it . . . and partly because it was a distraction from something he didn’t want to face. From Melvin. I felt it then. I feel it now. I can’t let him get himself into something as big, as important, as marriage without both of us being honest about why we’re doing it.

And yes, if I’m honest with myself . . . I may not be ready. It took months for me to let my guard down enough to acknowledge I love Sam, and months more before I dared open myself up to any kind of physical needs between the two of us. It terrified me. It still does on some level, but that’s the fundamental damage that Melvin did to me, and I’m working to correct it. But Sam doesn’t need to be my therapy, or my life preserver, or my rescuer.

I have to be all those things for myself if a marriage between us is ever going to work.

Sam’s making coffee when I come into the kitchen. I watch him anxiously for any sign that he’s angry, upset, disappointed . . . but I see nothing. He’s too guarded, and he’s too good at hiding what he’s really feeling. God, I really did that. I said no to him.

“Good morning,” he says. No indication he’s hurting. He pours me a cup. He’s already showered and dressed in heavy jeans and work boots and a moisture-wicking tee. “I’ve got the roofing job today. Should be back by dinner. You?”

This conversation is almost painfully superficial. I take the cup and sip. “Not much,” I say. “I might go to the range and do some target shooting later. It’s good to put in the practice, right? Given the circumstances?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “You’re going to run down that address in Virginia, right?”

“Yes.”

He leans in to kiss me lightly, and before he can pull away, I put my lips to his ear. It isn’t that there’s anyone else listening, it’s just that I need to whisper this.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Please come home again.” Because I’m actually afraid that when he walks out that door, he’ll keep walking.

He slowly pulls away, and our eyes meet. We say a lot in that moment. Volumes. And he says, “I’ll see you tonight.”

That’s as much comfort as there can be, I suppose. This time, when we kiss, it’s not quite as perfunctory. And I’m not quite as afraid to let go.

I spend the next two hours focusing on how Melvin’s managed to hit us again. The first step is easy; the address on the front of the envelope that held his sister’s journal traces back to a Pack ’N Ship on the north side of Richmond. I call. No answer. I look up the store and get another phone number, different from the one that’s listed on their website. This time someone picks up. “Pack ’N Ship. How can I help you?” The second part of this sounds resigned to being asked a stupid question. World-weary.

“Hi, I’m looking to renew box seven ninety-one,” I say. If I ask who owns it, I’ll never get the answer. “I might need to update the credit card too.”

“Oh, okay,” he says. “Hold on.” Keys click. “Looks like it’s not supposed to be renewed until the end of the year.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, I’d rather do it right now. I might forget. And I’ve moved, so . . .”

“Sure. Same card number?”

“Oh, and I got married, not sure if I updated the card yet for that,” I say. “What’s the name on the card you have?”

Sometimes people catch on, but I’m betting from his boredom and general resentment of the job that he’s not a due-diligence kind of guy. And I score, because he says, “Uh, it’s Dan O’Reilly.” I don’t recognize it.

“Oh, that’s my husband’s card, so it should be fine,” I say, and make sure I sound breathless and a little frazzled. “It’s just so hard keeping up with all the changes, you know? Um . . . and do you have our current address? We moved out of the apartment.”

“Twenty-two hundred Alfalfa Lane,” he says.

“Yes, that’s right. Thank you so much. Well, if the card’s correct, you can just charge it when you’re ready.”

“Uh-huh. I need to add you to the record, Mrs. O’Reilly. First name?”

“Frances,” I say. “Fran, for short.”

“Phone?”

“Same as his,” I say. I’m enjoying complicating the life of Mr. O’Reilly a little. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”