The Memory of You (Sanctuary Sound #1)(77)

At this point, he knew only one thing with certainty: he couldn’t help Steffi if he didn’t have the facts. He didn’t know what lines he might cross to get at the truth, but he suspected he would be willing to do things he’d never before approved.

He’d disdained the justifications people used to do whatever they wanted. Until now. His thoughts veered toward Billy’s hacking skills—the ones Ryan warned him not to use for official investigations. Pulling that string would be a gross invasion of Steffi’s privacy and also put both Billy and him at professional risk.

He sat at the edge of the bed, staring at his phone. One call to Billy and he’d have an answer by Monday. He stared some more before reaching for it. How could he invade her privacy when trust was such an important issue to him? Then again, if he was right and therapy could help her, didn’t he owe it to her to find out before she hurt herself or anyone else?

He hesitated, then made a different call.

“Ryan?” Steffi’s muffled voice sounded wary or tired, or possibly both.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. I just didn’t expect to hear from you tonight.”

Ryan scooted up against the headboard and stretched his legs out on his mattress. He closed his eyes and pictured her face. “I wanted to check on you, and to say good night.” He paused, hoping the thousand questions swirling through his thoughts would quiet. “Despite how things ended, I had a good time tonight. Getting stuff in the open was a welcome step forward for me and, I hope, for you . . .”

“It wasn’t as hard as I expected.”

He frowned. “Was I always hard to talk to?”

“Well, you’ve got some black-and-white opinions about the ‘right’ way to view things.”

“Do I?” If she believed that, she’d never be comfortable sharing anything important or controversial with him. “I’ll work on that. But you trust me, right? You know if you told me something in confidence, I wouldn’t judge you.”

“Thanks, Ryan.”

His feeble attempt to coax her confidence did nothing, so he resorted to small talk. “What time will you be banging on the walls here tomorrow?”

“No more banging. I’ll be applying drywall mud and tape. I’m sure Emmy will want to help me mix the mud.”

“I’ll keep her out of your hair.”

“I don’t mind her company. She’s respectful when I ask her to let me focus.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about my daughter becoming more handy than I am,” he joked, faking some humor while he tried to shake off his negativity.

“Welcome to the twenty-first century,” she teased. They both fell silent, then she sighed. “Ryan, I have a question.”

“Yeah?” Maybe this would be the opening he needed.

“Did I totally blow everything tonight?”

The ache in her voice matched the one in his chest. “No. You didn’t blow anything.”

Did she think he’d blame her for something she couldn’t control? Never. Especially not now that he thought he could be onto the cause of her blackouts.

“Good.” Relief brightened her voice. “Actually, I’d hoped if tonight had gone well that we might take Emmy to Oktoberfest on Sunday. We could do it as a friend thing. I mean, I understand why you need to protect her until we see where things lead . . .”

“It’s not personal. She can’t take more loss, that’s all.” He wanted to accept the invitation, but Steffi’s unpredictable behavior gave him pause. Until she got that sorted out, perhaps he should limit the time she spent with his daughter outside this house. “Let me think about it. I have no idea if she’d be up for that; plus, I need to do a little work. But if we can’t make it, let’s you and I can grab dinner one night this week.”

“Okay.” Her dejected tone caused him to close his eyes with regret. “See you tomorrow.”

“Sweet dreams, Steffi.” He hit “Off” and set the phone on the nightstand, and then folded his hands over his stomach. Drawing a deep breath, he stared at the ceiling as if the answers to all his questions were hidden beneath the paint.





Chapter Seventeen

“Steffi? You up?” Claire tapped on the bedroom door.

Steffi struggled to open her eyes, blinking against the bright sunlight coming through her window. “Come in.”

Claire cracked open the door and poked her face inside. “Are you sick?”

“No, why?” Steffi yawned and rolled onto her back while she stretched. She’d spent most of the night awake because the hurt look on Ryan’s face when she’d struck him had replayed every time she’d shut her eyes. The last time she’d looked at the clock, it’d been 5:20 a.m.

“I thought you were going to Molly’s this morning.” Claire stepped inside with her coffee. She’d already showered and dressed for the day. The bold pink-and-gold pattern on her skirt threatened to give Steffi a migraine.

“I am.” She yawned and arched her back into a stretch.

Claire lowered her cup. “It’s already ten thirty.”

“What?” Steffi bolted upright and grabbed for her alarm clock. “Crap! I must’ve hit the alarm and rolled right back to sleep.”