What Are You Afraid Of? (The Agency #2)(38)

In retrospect, she accepted that her father had been possessive of his young, beautiful wife. And quick to anger when he feared she might be pulling away from him.

Maybe that was the reason . . .

Her mouth went dry as she passed by the hidden door that held the coat closet. A brutal cold filled her veins as her feet continued to carry her forward. Just as they had that fateful night.

Step. Step. Step.

She thought she heard someone say her name, but it was difficult to hear. As if she was underwater.

Her hands were shaking as she finally entered the kitchen. It was a newer addition to the main house, with lots of sunlight and stainless steel appliances. Once upon a time it’d been Carmen’s favorite room in the house.

Now her memories tinted it in red.

Blood red.

“Carmen.” Strong fingers wrapped around her upper arms, giving her a small shake.

She blinked, struggling to come back to reality. Desperately she clung to the sight of Griff ’s lean, handsome face as he leaned toward her.

“Nothing’s changed,” she said, the words coming out like a croak.

His brows drew together, his expression worried. “You mean the furniture?”

“The furniture. The artwork.” She shuddered, sucking in a deep breath. “It even smells the same. Like my dad’s pipe.”

“Carmen, I’m sorry.” His arms slid around her, tugging her against his chest. “I know this is difficult for you.”

She remained stiff in his arms, but she didn’t try to pull away.

“You know what happened here?” she demanded.

He nodded. “I read a few articles.”

She wasn’t surprised. Griff probably had done a complete background search on her as soon as he realized she’d deliberately approached him on the beach.

“Then you know that fourteen years ago my father shot my mother and then killed himself.” Her gaze lowered to the tiled floor. “In this room.”

His hand slid up and down her back in a soothing motion. “Were you here?”

She gave a slow nod, feeling beads of sweat form on her brow. It was weird. She could remember exactly what she’d done on that fateful day. She’d gone to a friend’s house for a birthday party. They’d played in the pool, rode horses, and giggled over boys. She’d come home after dinner and gone straight to her room. A few hours later she was sound asleep.

After that, things got . . . fuzzy.

“I was asleep upstairs,” she said, her voice low and strained. “The first shot woke me. I didn’t know what it was. I thought someone had broken a window. It frightened me.”

His fingers threaded into her hair, combing through the golden curls.

“What did you do?”

“I crawled out of bed and went to find my mother.” It’d been a warm night, she abruptly recalled, but she’d been shivering as she’d silently crept through the dark house. “I looked in my parents’ bedroom, but it was empty. So I came downstairs.”

He pressed his lips to the top of her head. “You’re safe now.”

Her hands lifted to lie against his chest, taking strength from the feel of his strong arms wrapped around her.

“I started to go toward the living room where my parents usually watched TV at night. Then I turned to go to the kitchen.”

“Why?”

She tilted back her head to meet his dark, steady gaze. “What?”

“Why did you come to the kitchen?”

Oh. Her brow furrowed. Why did she?

She tried to battle through the fuzz.

“I think I heard something,” she finally decided, allowing herself to feel the floorboards beneath her feet that creaked as she moved, and the lingering scent of pipe tobacco that hung in the air. “A voice, maybe,” she said, then gave a shake of her head. It hadn’t been a conversation. “Or my father’s cry,” she at last concluded, still not satisfied. “I was just outside the doorway when the second shot went off.”

His hand splayed on her back as he lifted his head to stare down at her with dismay.

“You didn’t come in here, did you?”

“No.” She grimaced. “The sound was so loud I ran back down the hall and hid in the coat closet. That’s where the cops eventually found me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“So am I.” She released a shaky breath. “I was a coward.”

“Coward?” He sent her a confused glance. “You were just a child.”

The guilt that churned deep inside her bubbled to the surface, searing against her nerve endings like acid.

“If I’d come in here instead of running away—”

“You’d have what?” he sharply interrupted. “Spent the rest of your life tormenting yourself with the image of their bodies?”

She hunched a shoulder. “I could have called nine-one-one right away. My mother might have been saved.”

He jerked, as if struck by a sudden thought. “Who did call the cops?”

She hesitated, sorting through the thoughts. At last she concluded that she’d never been told who’d been responsible for the call.

“I assume it was Ellen,” she said with a shrug. “I really don’t know.”

“Was anyone else in the house?”