Hell Breaks Loose (Devil's Rock #2)(39)

Cold seeped in from outside, penetrating the skin and bones of the house. Winter was coming. She pulled the blanket to her chin, looking up from the well-read book to the frosted windowpanes, gazing out at the distant mountaintops, a few already capped in snow.

Reid stayed outside most of the day, only coming in once or twice, the thud of his boots alerting her and making her heart stop hard before picking up again.

She emerged to eat a lunch of peanut butter crackers and orange juice—something she could grab quickly and then dive back into her bedroom to (hopefully) avoid Reid.

Once before ducking back into the room she crept cautiously toward the front window. The fire popped and a log crumbled in the fireplace as she munched a cracker and peered outside.

He was there. She watched for some moments. He didn’t drift from the front of the house. She was certain that was deliberate. Not so she could spy on him, as it were, but so he could keep an eye on the front door. He did not trust her to stay put.

Grace leaned against the doorjamb, watching him secretly from her vantage point. He buried himself under the hood of the van for a short while, his strong arms flexing as he worked, using tools whose names she didn’t know. He was seemingly indifferent to the cold, not even bothering to don a jacket, leaving her to observe the way the muscles in his broad back played beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

Slamming the hood shut, he moved into the shed, pulling out an old motorcycle that looked like it hadn’t seen action in years. After several failed attempts to get it started, he set to work on it. Like he was just any guy spending an afternoon working on his bike. Like he wasn’t a wanted man with a hostage that every law enforcement agency in the country was hunting.

Turning away, she picked up her plate and disappeared inside the bedroom, where she spent the next few hours reading and rereading the same pages, trying not to think about Reid and reflect too much on the idea that a boy with a good grandfather who taught him to fish couldn’t be all bad.

Later, she returned to the kitchen with her plate and took another look outside. He was still at work on that motorcycle. She watched him for a while, marveling at what kind of escaped-con/kidnapper/career criminal he was before shuffling back into her bedroom.

Inside the deceptive safety of her room, she gave up on reading and explored, searching all the drawers, looking into the closet and finding only more clothes. The nightstand beside the bed had a single drawer containing a Bible and a few papers. She opened the Bible and saw a name written inside. Jeremiah Hollister. Reid’s grandfather? Of course, he read the Bible. And Tolkien.

Grace closed the book and started to put it back in the drawer when a sheet of paper fluttered out. She bent to pick up the folded page from the floor. There was a child’s drawing on the slightly yellowed page. Though rudimentary, she could see that it was an illustration of this very cabin. A bright sun overhead, the orb yellow with happy orange rays. A gray, bearded man with a slashing red curve for his lips stood on the porch. It was sweet in its simplicity. Large blocky letters scrawled across the top. I love you, Grandpa. At the bottom was a single name. Reid.

He had drawn this picture and his grandfather had thought to keep it . . . slipped inside the pages of his Bible. Jeremiah Hollister had clearly treasured it.

Reid had called his grandfather a good person. Well, he wasn’t the only one. Reid had been good, too. An innocent boy. He could have led a different life. Maybe if his grandfather had lived he wouldn’t have ended up in prison.

For some reason, her eyes burned as she thought about the little boy who drew this picture growing into a man who lived in a cell.

Grace blinked her stinging eyes, refolded the page and stuck it back inside the Bible, then slammed it inside the drawer. Out of sight. There was definitely something wrong with her if she was starting to feel sorry for him.

Dusk tinged the air outside the windowpanes. She grabbed fresh clothes and ducked back into the bathroom, suddenly restless and eager to take a shower.

In the tiny bathroom, she stood under the spray of water and used the shampoo that smelled faintly astringent. The water started to run cold and she shut it off. Instantly the cold air hit her and she grabbed for a towel, shivering as she rubbed her chilled skin and sopping wet hair. Dressed again, she wrapped her head in the towel, sniffing at the air. Something delicious and buttery wove its way around her. She unwrapped the towel from around her head and attacked the wet snarls with a brush, longing for her conditioner. She slid on a pair of thick men’s stocks to combat the chill and stepped out from the bathroom.

Reid stood before the stove in the kitchen, his back to her. She watched him for a moment, noting that he seemed to consume all the space in the tiny kitchen. She edged closer, enjoying the heat flowing from the crackling fireplace. He’d added more logs and it burned with gusto.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” she admitted. And she was. It had been several hours since those crackers and juice.

“It’ll be ready soon.”

She stood on her tiptoes, eyeing the fish in a large black skillet. “You get to cook much in prison?”

“No. Never had kitchen duty.”

“One of the many things your grandfather taught you, then?”

He grunted. “We cooked whatever we caught the very same day. Doubt you ever had fish this fresh, princess. Even in your fancy restaurants.”

It was always there—that gulf separating them. As there should be.