Until You (The Redemption, #1)(37)

The door is locked. I try the handle, try to remember where my keys are, suddenly frantic to get inside. I yelp when Crew puts his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “Tennyson. Stop. It’s okay,” he says into the crown of my head. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

You’re safe.

You’re Tennyson. And you’re safe.

Will I ever really feel that way again? Safe?

I draw in a slow, steadying breath and simply nod as he pulls my keys from his pocket and hands them to me to unlock the door. We’re greeted by about an inch of water pooling through the kitchen and into the family room, its flow already stopped from him turning the mainline off.

“Right there,” I say, pointing to a wall near the garage door where the drywall has deteriorated and looks like it’s sliding down the wall. “Let me—”

“No,” he says, taking my hand and moving me toward the couch that luckily is untouched by the water. “Sit.” He looks around the kitchen. “Where’s your hard stuff at?” I must stare at him with a dumbfounded look on my face. “Brandy. Scotch. Vodka. Where is it at?”

“Above the fridge,” I say, and within seconds he has a glass in his hand and is bringing it to my lips.

“Drink.”

The burn is there, dulled by the adrenaline subsiding through my veins, but still there. I close my eyes for a moment and try to figure out how to talk my way out of looking like an overreacting, mad woman.

“Better?”

“Yes. I totally overreacted like an idiot. I was literally listening to a true crime podcast on the way home. I pulled up and saw the doors open, feared life was imitating the story, and got spooked,” I lie, my eyes focused on my hands wrapped around the tumbler, all the while feeling the weight of his stare on me.

“Uh-huh.” It’s all he says as he stands from his seat beside me and moves toward the kitchen.

“Crew.”

“Don’t.” It’s a one-word warning, and when I meet his gaze, I know I won’t be challenging it.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


Crew




I take my time putting a hammer through the drywall to find the leak in the pipe. I work slowly as I soak up and then mop the freestanding water on Tenny’s floor.

I need time for my temper to abate.

I need a moment to not shake the answers out of her.

Who did this to you?

Where can I find him?

Because the fear that was in her eyes, the abject terror someone must feel to crawl over a seat to escape a running vehicle, tells me there is a whole hell of a lot more going on here than being spooked by a true crime podcast.

All the signs tell me that she’s the one who already survived one.

I’ve seen victims before. I know the telltale signs. The shell-shocked look. The stammering lies to cover the truth. The embarrassment after the fact.

And Tennyson West exhibits all of them.

With a deep breath, an almost dry floor, and a calmed temper, I head back to where she’s still seated on the couch. Where despite her protests, I instructed her to remain while I did my best on the plumbing and its damage.

I take a seat on the coffee table in front of Tenny, my knees framing hers. “What’s going on, Tenny? Are you going to be straight with me and tell me what really happened today, or are you going to keep feeding me bullshit lies?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, pushing my knees out of the way and moving to the other side of the room where she unfolds and then refolds a blanket.

“I’m the good guy here,” I say. “All I want to do is help you in any way I can.”

“I’m fine. Everything is fine.” Her words are clipped and the smile she offers me is strained when she glances my way. “The girls are waiting for you.”

I nod slowly as I study her and wonder what the fuck the bastard did to her to elicit the reaction she had.

And all she works at is avoiding me. She straightens the magazines on the table. She collects Hani’s toys and puts them in a basket next to the hearth. She puts the sopping towels from the floor into the washing machine in the mudroom.

I wait patiently for her—just in case she decides to talk—but the longer I sit here, the more I know she’s not going to. She doesn’t trust me.

Not yet anyway.

But I’m working on it, and the first part of that is not pressing her.

“Okay, then.” I rise from the table and move into the kitchen where she’s now wiping down already clean counters. “I’ll leave you be, but we’re going to have to figure out arrangements for you while your water is shut off.”

“I’m fine,” she repeats.

If I never hear those two words again, it will be too soon.

“No, you’re not fine, but you can say it if it makes you feel better.” She stills, sponge in one hand, but doesn’t turn to face me. “You don’t have running water here until Bobby comes out next week. Plus, I’m going to need to get the walls checked for mold. I have no idea how long that pipe has been leaking behind the drywall. I can put you up in a hotel since I’m to blame for this—”

“No need to. Like I said, I’m—”

“Fine, yes, we’ve established that fact.” I sigh in frustration and then continue without really thinking through what I’m offering. “Or you’re more than welcome to stay with us. We have two extra bedrooms just sitting there unused. The girls would love it. I’d stay out of your hair.”