She Can Hide (She Can #4)(20)

Wooziness flooded her head as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, but her head settled in a few seconds. She stood, satisfied when the room remained still and steady. She padded to the doorway and stuck her head into the hall. Brooke’s voice floated up the stairs.

Relief eased her breathing.

Abby withdrew to the bathroom, flipping on every light switch she passed. She started the shower and stripped off her sweaty clothes as the water warmed. She stepped under the spray, and hot water cascaded over her head and body. She soaped and shampooed, then stood with her back to the pounding heat until the water began to cool. Afterward, dressed in flannel pajama pants and a heavy sweatshirt, Abby emerged into the hall and opened the linen closet.

“There you are.”

She jumped.

“I’m sorry if I startled you.” Brooke put a hand on Abby’s arm. She glanced down at the clean sheets in Abby’s arms. “Rough nap?”

Abby pressed a hand to her forehead, where heaviness lurked. “Feels more like the flu than a concussion.”

“Go downstairs.” Brooke took the linens from her. “I’ll get this.”

“But—”

Brooke was already attacking the sheets on the bed. “There’s soup in the kitchen,” her friend called over her shoulder in a voice that allowed no argument.

Abby descended the stairs. In the living room, Derek and Brooke’s fifteen-year-old son, Chris, were watching hockey and eating pizza. Zeus sat in front of the boys, an intense gaze riveted on Derek’s slice as it moved from his plate to his mouth. Abby forgot about her fuzzy head for a second. Derek didn’t relax with many people, but Brooke and her kids were the exceptions.

Derek’s head swiveled. Relief passed over his face as he spied her stepping off the landing. He jumped to his feet and gestured to his spot on the sofa. “Here, sit down.”

“I just got up.” She was still tired, but the nausea had faded and her mouth was dry as chalk. Abby wandered into the kitchen. She filled a glass at the tap and downed the water in a few gulps. Her throat was still parched. She refilled. Drinking, she opened the fridge. A mammoth container of chicken soup sat on the top shelf. She ladled a portion into a bowl and stuck it in the microwave.

Brooke hustled into the room with Abby’s sheets tucked under one arm. “You know all your lights came on at four o’clock?”

“They’re set on timers to make it look like someone is home all the time. I’ll have to check the settings.” The lie burned on its way out of Abby’s dry lips. But how could she tell another adult that she was terrified of the dark? No one over the age of six would understand. “Is Haley with Luke?”

“Yes.” Brooke opened the louvered closet door in the back of the kitchen and stuffed Abby’s sheets into the washer. “He took her shopping.”

“Brave man.” Abby leaned a hip on the counter.

“He is.” Smiling, Brooke added detergent. Water rushed into the washer. Her new beau had been good for Brooke in many ways. Her friend’s tight wiring had loosened ever so slightly over the past couple of months. The fact that the serial killer who targeted her back in November had pled guilty to avoid the death penalty also helped. Neither Brooke nor her daughter would have to testify or relive their kidnappings during a trial.

“She still doesn’t remember anything?” Abby drifted to a chair and lowered her tired muscles into the seat. Brooke’s daughter had been drugged and unconscious through most of the ordeal.

“No.” Brooke closed the closet door.

Abby traced a yellow flower on her placemat. “How does she cope?”

“The therapist helps.” Brooke turned and leaned against the closed door. “Do you want her card?”

Abby recoiled. “No.”

“She’s helping me too.” Brooke tilted her head. “I can tell you firsthand that burying your issues doesn’t work in the long run. There’s no shame in needing counseling, Abby.”

“I never said there was.” Abby turned to the window. Darkness pressed on the glass. Her image reflected back on her. Shivering, she reached up to close the blinds. “I’m fine.”

Brooke’s eyes were doubtful, but she dropped the topic. “How about some orange juice?”

“No. I just want water.” Abby drained the second glass. She longed to tell Brooke about her past. Brooke was her best—make that only—friend. But Abby had been betrayed by people she’d known much longer. And frankly, talking about her past was just too painful. Before Friday’s accident, she’d been working hard to shake off the paranoia that ruled her life. But how could she do that now?

The microwave dinged.

“Sit.” Brooke waved Abby toward the table and brought her soup and crackers.

Abby inhaled the steam rising from the bowl. She dipped a spoon and took a tentative taste. Her stomach rumbled in approval. Yay. Her disturbing discussion with Brooke hadn’t dulled her hunger. She forced herself to eat slowly.

Brooke washed a few glasses and wiped the counter. She checked under the lid of a pizza box sitting on the stove. “There are two slices left if you want one.”

“I’ll stick with soup.” Abby spooned the last of the broth into her mouth and pushed the bowl away. “That was really good. Thanks. Did you make it?”