Page 31 of Rogue Survivor
The Glock19 is heavy on my belt. Familiar and not. For years, it was a part of me, of my morning routine. The first week or two I was out of the hospital, I opened the safe every day before I remembered I didn’t need to—even though the only way I made it from one room to the next was with a walker.
Didn’t matter.
Who am I without my ID and gun? Connor Davis, civilian? I stifle my snort and hope Isabel doesn’t notice. She’s still nervous about going home, and I scan the road around us constantly, cataloging every car, tensing once or twice and backtracking a few blocks when one follows for longer than a single turn.
After the most convoluted route possible between my apartment and Isabel’s house, I pull into the driveway of the modest Craftsman. Paint the color of a desert sunset, sky blue trim, and a welcoming, expansive porch greet us, but Isabel doesn’t make a move to get out of my truck.
“You’re sure?” she asks, her shoulders hunching up around her ears.
“No one followed us. Your front door’s still closed.” I ease myself out and round the front of the truck with as much control over my gait as I can muster. The knee brace feels like it’s strangling the life out of my leg, but at least I’m not in danger of the joint buckling with every step.
I help Isabel down, my hands on her waist, and meet her gaze. “Get your keys, darlin’. You unlock the door, then stay behind me. I’m gonna clear the house before I let you out of my sight.”
“Clear…oh, God. Like with that?” She nods toward my gun. “We can go…”
“Standard procedure. Probably unnecessary. But I won’t take any chances with your safety.” Dipping my head, I brush a quick kiss to her lips, and some of the tension in her body eases. She fishes her keys out of her purse, but her hand shakes the whole time. “Deep breaths.”
“I trust you.” The declaration is so quiet, I think she’s trying to reassure herself as much as me, but she lets me lead her to the door.
I test the lock. Good. Still secure. She steps out of the way quickly once the door’s open, and I sweep my gaze around the neatly kept living room. Clearing a space? One of those things you never forget how to do. It’s ingrained in us at Quantico. Second nature. Almost as natural as breathing. The gun’s solid weight in my hands reassures me, and despite the nerve damage in my right forearm, my grip doesn’t waver.
Living room, dining room, kitchen, pantry, two bathrooms and all three bedrooms. Empty—and to my eyes—untouched. “Anything out of place?” I ask once I’ve holstered my weapon and we’re standing in Veronica’s room.
“No. Thank God.”
“What about smells? Any new ones? Body odor, cologne, anything?”
She offers me a little smile. “No. Just you.”
I chuckle. “Is that a good thing?” Never been self-conscious about my own scent before, but being around Isabel is an exercise in the unknown. One I’ll gladly add to my daily routine if she’ll let me.
“Yes.” Her fingers skim down my arm, coming to rest on my wrist where she squeezes lightly before turning to Veronica’s dresser. “The suitcases are in the garage on the shelf above the workbench. Can you grab the big green one for me?”
“Of course. Pack enough for at least four days. Any longer and we can come back.”
Isabel starts pulling items out of the drawers, and once I retrieve the suitcase and set it on Veronica’s bed, I offer to help, but really…what the hell am I going to do? I don’t know what either of them need. So I head for the living room and sink down onto the dark blue couch to wait.
Photos stare back at me from the mantle. Veronica on a bike as a kid, her standing with Isabel and a man who looks so much like Veronica, he has to be her father. A strange sensation churns in my gut. It’s not jealousy. Not exactly. More like regret. The three of them look happy. The perfect family. Isabel is mid-laugh, holding a four- or five-year-old Veronica while Tony stares at them with awe.
“How long have y’all lived here?” I ask when Isabel busies herself in the kitchen for a few minutes.
“Almost seven years. After Tony was killed, everything in our house reminded me of him. Veronica didn’t want to move, but I was crying every day, and just…” she waves her hand, “needed a fresh start. Why?”
I join her at the counter and cover her hand with mine. “I don’t know how to do this, darlin’. You had a whole life with a man you obviously loved who loved you back.”
“I did.” Her voice carries such warmth when she talks about her late husband, and there’s that regret again. Rising like a creek in winter. “But…he’s gone, Connor.” Her eyes shimmer, but she smiles, a little sad and a little wistful. “He’ll always be a part of me. Veronica has his sense of humor, his resilience, his determination, and his smile. Every year on his birthday, we watch old videos together so she doesn’t forget him.”
“I don’t want you to ever think I’m tryin’ to take his place. Especially now. If you don’t want me stayin’ with you at the safehouse, I won’t. I’m not your husband. Hell, I don’t even know if I’m your boyfriend. And I’m practically movin’ in.”
Her little gasp surprises me, as does her palm over my heart. “You’re definitelynota boy, Connor. And I hate labels. I’m a ‘widow’ and a ‘single mom’ and a ‘strong woman’ and all these otherthingsthat don’t tell people anything about who I really am. You’re important to me. I care about you, and I want you in my life. Can that be what we are for now?”
Nodding, I pull her close, and Isabel rests her cheek against my chest. I can do “no labels.” As long as I know she wants me, I can do anything.
Isabel
I packed too much. Veronica’s favorite blanket, her pillow, and more than a dozen loose sweaters and t-shirts to accommodate her cast and stitches. “Can we fit this too?” I ask, holding up the stuffed whale Tony bought her when she was seven.
“We can fit anything you need, darlin’,” Connor says from the kitchen. He cleaned out the refrigerator while I packed—something that didn’t even occur to me—and now he’s wiping down my countertops.
