Unbreakable (City Lights, #2)(47)

“It’s okay. I want it.” I looked up at him. “And I want another leave of absence. From us.”

He blinked. “You do?”

“For a month or so. Until the engagement party, maybe. I’ll go stay at my bungalow. It’ll be good for me to sort things out with the robbery, and it will give us space.”

The flash of relief that flitted across Drew’s face hurt me more than I thought, but also solidified that it was the right thing to do.

“Are you sure you want to be alone right now?”

“I think I need it.” I forced a smile. “It’ll be like the olden times, before husbands and wives shacked up together. We’ve been together almost every day for six years. Maybe the distance will kindle something that’s been…lacking.”

“Well, if you think it’s best…”

“I do. I’ll go pack now.”

I started to turn but Drew stopped me, his voice heavy. “I do love you, Alex.”

“I’ve never doubted that,” I said. But it’s not enough.





Chapter Eighteen


Alex



The following morning, Saturday, I awoke from a terrible, fitful sleep peppered with flashes of the robbery: leering grins and blood, and gunshots that echoed in my mind. I had lain down with my head full of hope that sleeping in my bungalow in Santa Monica, my own space, would provide me a good night’s sleep.

Now, I sat up, my hair hanging in messy tangle from tossing and turning, trying to muster some energy for the day. My bed in my room here was softer than at Drew’s, as he preferred a slab. And yet I had slept better splayed awkwardly across a hospital bed.

Cory.

He was still in the hospital. He wasn’t getting to move on with his life. He had weeks more of pain, maybe respiratory therapy of some kind to look forward to. And hospital bills. I didn’t know what a journeyman was paid but I somehow doubted such a job came with a full insurance plan. I bit my lip.

You’re trying to move on. You’re putting your life back together, and letting go of the robbery is the first step.

I threw off the covers and padded around my bungalow. It had been months since I’d been in it.

A single-story Craftsman built in 1922, I had fallen in love with it the moment I saw it three years ago. The exterior was pure Craftsman, with the signature pillars over the front porch, and with both stonework and wood for the front fa?ade. It had two bedrooms—one of which I’d turned into an office/yoga space—two bathrooms, and a cute little backyard. The décor was much more homey, more feminine, than Drew’s big house, though I had redone the bathrooms and kitchen in granite counters and new fixtures to give it a touch of elegance.

Even better, for Los Angeles, my house was in walking distance to all the shops, restaurants and boutiques on Ocean Ave, Third Street Promenade, and—if I were feeling ambitious—the Santa Monica Pier with its twinkling lights and enormous Ferris wheel. Not that I ever took advantage. I worked too much to take any time off, even for a stroll to the beach, and I’d been living at Drew’s house for over a year anyway.

My bungalow was neglected and dark, so I busied myself by making it habitable again.

I opened the windows to let in the ocean breeze and summer sunshine, and dusted off a year’s worth of dust from the bookshelves, the flat screen TV in the living room, and the low, square coffee table before it. Then I vacuumed, gave the windows a wipe from the inside, and aired out the office.

Work done, I stood in the center of my living room, wondering what to do next. Time off was an alien concept. Even weekends and holidays were typically spent on a case. As one was wrapping up, there was always one—or more—waiting to be prepped.

I toyed with my phone, wondering at its silence. No texts from Abed, no updates on where my other cases stood, no chiming of the calendar to remind me of deposition dates, or interviews, or client meetings, or hearings, or court appearances. Silence.

The day’s hours stretched before me.

“Are you kidding?” I muttered to myself. “Read. Take a walk. Go shopping.” Visit Cory at the hospital.

The thought slipped into my mind like a cat through an open door.

“A walk,” I declared loudly. Once upon a time I had chosen Santa Monica as the place to buy my first house solely because of Ocean Avenue. “So go. And stop talking to yourself.”

My closet here was just as full of clothes as the one at Drew’s. I dressed in a pair of yoga pants, t-shirt, and running shoes—my ‘off-duty’ uniform since I could remember. I stuffed my wallet, keys, and phone into a Coach swingback purse and headed out.

As I trotted down the front steps of the bungalow I thought—and not for the first time—I should have a dog on a leash beside me, straining for a run on the beach. With the close proximity, and the yard out back, my house was practically made for a dog. But dogs needed time and attention, and my busy schedule allowed for neither.

I walked the five blocks from my place on California to Ocean Avenue, which ran parallel to the Pacific Ocean. Traffic was relatively light at ten a.m. on a Saturday, but it was summertime and tourists walked the picturesque avenue, to and from the Santa Monica Pier, which was bustling this time of year.

I strolled Ocean Avenue, then up Arizona, and meandered past the shops and restaurants of the Third Street Promenade. But the fact that I was alone began to unnerve me.