Just Like Home(93)
A low laugh came from behind her. “Now, is that right?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Vera stood fast enough that her chair tipped over. James Duvall was standing in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his hair and shoulders white with plaster dust. How had he moved so quietly? Vera glanced down and saw that his boots were off. He’d stripped down to his socks.
He hadn’t been quiet by accident, then.
How long had he been listening?
“Are you ladies gossiping about me?” He dusted his hands off, white powder raining down onto the warm wood of the floor. “Vera, you doing okay? I heard you thrashing around up in your room not so long ago. Seems like you’re the thing that goes bump in the night, huh?” He laughed, low and gentle, his eyes glittering.
Vera grasped frantically for the courage she’d felt in the backyard the day before, the courage she’d felt when she chased the Crowder House into the dining room. This couldn’t be happening. She didn’t have a plan to deal with him, not anymore. Not now that there was someone here for her to protect.
Not now that she had a friend.
“James,” she said. “Daphne’s not feeling well. You have to leave.”
James shook his head, walked past her to get to Daphne’s bedside. “How’s my best girl doing today?” he said warmly. “How’re we feeling?”
“You have to go. She’s going to be sick. In fact,” Vera scrambled clumsily, “it’s best if you pack your things and leave for a little while.”
The Crowder House closed its eyes and seemed to collapse, its chest sinking inward, its spine compacting. “I’m so sorry,” it murmured. “I tried to stop her, but she was too alive when she decided to sign the deed over to him. I couldn’t stop her.”
“It’s okay,” Vera said. “Duvall, that signature doesn’t mean anything. My mother wasn’t in her right mind. This House doesn’t belong to you.”
“Okay,” Duvall said. He shifted his shoulders in an easy shrug. “Make me leave.”
Vera stepped toward him. She had no choice and having no choice was the thing she was best at. She was ready to fight. She was ready to get hurt. She was ready to do whatever needed to be done to make this man leave her and the Crowder House alone. “It’s time to go,” she said.
“I think you’re right about that,” Duvall replied.
And then he stepped toward her and grabbed her arm in one big, strong hand, as big and strong as the hands that built the Crowder House in the first place. His grip was tight enough to make her bones creak. He yanked her close and Vera felt her elbow pull just a little farther apart than it was ever meant to.
He smelled of paint and smoke and clean sweat, and when he brought his face close to hers, Vera could almost taste him.
“Let me go,” Vera said, staring at his wet, pink mouth, hating the tremor in her voice and the violence in her belly.
He rested his lips against her forehead for a fraction of a second, then replied, his stubble rasping against her skin. “Oh, Vera. I intend to.”
He was behind her so fast, and the creature that was inside Daphne was watching them with wide, desperate eyes. Duvall was too strong to resist. He was yanking on her so much harder than he needed to.
Here was everything he’d been promising her since the day they first met. He wanted them both to hurt. He wanted to be the one to make them hurt. Vera couldn’t prevent the soft laugh that bubbled up out of her at this realization as Duvall hauled her across the dining room toward the entryway.
If only he’d shown her this side of himself sooner, she thought wildly, maybe she would have liked him more.
“My father did say that you were a handful,” he grunted. “Enough’s enough. Out you go.”
Duvall’s fingers were digging into the soft meat of Vera’s underarms as he dragged her through the entryway. She flailed out with her hands, grabbed at the walls. The arch her father had built was too wide and she shouldn’t have been able to get purchase, but the Crowder House reached out a hand from the bed as if to catch Vera, and the frame of the passage flexed inward with a soft groan and a flurry of plaster dust.
Vera dug her fingers in hard and held fast, letting her nails sink into the thick, gummy layer of white paint that frosted the trim around the doorframe. A noise filled the room, a noise like a caught cat, and it took Vera a very long time to realize that the noise was coming from her own throat.
Duvall hitched up his grip and yanked at her, the knobs of his wrists crushing into the front of her shoulders. Still, she held fast. “That’s enough now,” he growled. “This is my house to do with as I please. Daphne and I have an agreement. I was going to let you stay,” he added with a grunt of effort. “I was gonna let you help me manage the place. But I’m sick of you. Time to leave, Vera Crowder.”
There was a fist in her hair and a thick, ropy arm around her neck, keeping her body upright. Duvall yanked her head backward, opening her throat up to the room. He nestled her windpipe into the soft notch of his elbow. For the briefest moment, Vera felt the heat of him, the way the tip of her chin rested on the point of his elbow.
And then Duvall started to pull. The only sound Vera could produce was a weak, whistling groan, and her ability to make even that small noise gave out almost as soon as it started. Her neck stretched, releasing a series of low pops, as the pressure of Duvall’s arm slowly tugged her chin farther and farther away from her breastbone until she was certain that something that was supposed to be permanent would simply disconnect.