Page 15 of Three Steps Behind

“Thanks.” She gave him a soft smile.

“It was nothing.” Deck shrugged.

It was a lot.

She cupped the second bag to her forehead.

She must look a sight. Hands positioned at odd angles on two sections of her face. A face she couldn’t bring herself to look at—the bruises a fierce reminder of each blow. Mirrors were not her friend.

“Should I leave you alone? I mean, are you ready for bed?”

“Not yet.” There. She’d admitted it—at least a little bit.

“Okay. I can hang.” He shrugged a shoulder. “If you’d like me to.”

She nodded.

Twenty minutes passed in sweet silence—just the two of them being together, then she finally laid the thawed veggies on the nightstand.

“I should go,” he said, heading for the door. “You need your sleep.”

How did she tell him it wouldn’t come? But he needed sleep. His eyes were heavy with the need for slumber.

“Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.” If I make it through the night. Nights were the worst. The darkness swallowed her whole.

“Holler if you need anything. I’m just down the hall.”

She nodded and gave him a wave good-night.

He shut the door behind him, and she stood, turning on every light in the room—banishing the soft glow of the nightstand lamp into a full blaze of competing brightness.

Sitting back on the bed, she reached for her phone. “You will keep me entertained until morning,” she half ordered it. It was all she had, except . . .

Her gaze flashed to the hanging bookshelf above the low cabinet.

Standing, she padded across the floor, thankful for her socks. She perused the titles, finally picking 1st to Die by James Patterson. She’d read it before and loved the women who made up the murder club, and having read it before, there’d be no scary surprises.

She studied the lower shelf and smiled. The Zane Grey collection had to be Deck’s. That and the classics—The Count of Monte Cristo and A Tale of Two Cities. The evening they’d shared what they enjoyed reading flashed through her mind. Both of them sitting on her couch, her cross-legged, him with his feet on her coffee table after asking if it was okay to put them there. Laughing into the night, getting to know each other—until the drive-by shooting, but even that didn’t seem so scary anymore. They’d ducked and within less than a minute it was over—neither of them none the worse.

She cast her gaze to the window, moving toward it. Sliding the curtain aside, she looked out at the snow-covered land—still, silent. “Thank you,” she breathed. Unsure who she was thanking, but it burst from her lips all the same.

Deck’s bedroom door shut as noise emanated from the foyer—the rest of the gang heading out for the night.

Her throat narrowed, her muscles coiling.

He’s right down the hall.

But walls existed between them. Walls that seemed to never end—boxing her in.

Eight

DECK CHANGED into a T-shirt and PJ bottoms and crawled into bed. He glanced at the clock. Half past one. His body—exhausted. His mind—reeling.

His dad was alive. His mind should be blown, but somewhere in the back of it, he’d always wondered if the explosion had been just another of their dad’s cons. The ultimate con—death. But he hadn’t stayed with it. Why? Not because of any of them. Because of Bristol getting in “too deep.” Their dad risked life and limb to save her, no doubt from a con of her own making.

His hand on his chest, Deck whooshed out an exhale.

Not only that, but Art had led the strong possibility of danger straight to them by coming to their property. Their home. Deck shook his head. Their dad hadn’t changed—just as selfish and uncaring as always.