Page 153

I sniffle. Unintentionally. Damn nose started running and I couldn’t help it.

Teddy doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t stop me as I peer down at the smudges of paper.

“Where?” I breathe.

Still silent, he starts flipping the pages and pointing.

I scribble my name fast and without asking a single question. I could have just given him my house for all it registered.

“I’ll grab what I need, but if you can find a couple of guys to load the rest into Safekeep Storage, I would appreciate it.”

I sign the last line as the first tear slips down my cheek.

“Everly...”

I pass him back his pen. “Lauren isn’t coming,” I tell him. Tell the center of his chest. “She ... she doesn’t know. No one does. I’ll leave the keys under the mat by Monday. The reception is terrible where I’m going so you might not be able to get a hold of me right away, but I’ll check my messages as frequently as I can.”

The spot I’m staring at expands with his sharp inhale.

“You should talk to Alana. Martin Parker’s daughter. She’s looking for a place like mine for when the baby comes.”

Teddy nods again, even slower if possible.

With a murmured thanks, I hurry from his apartment.

I sprint down the stairs and out through the backdoor without looking back.

Groceries then home — that’s the plan.

That’s what I tell myself the entire drive to the grocery store.

I dig out my list, toss my purse straps over my shoulder and roll out into the sticky aftermath of yesterday’s storm and the last two weeks of sweltering oppression. It clings to my skin, a tacky gel that immediately fuses my blouse down the length of my spine. I pinch the bottom and try to shake it free as I start towards the doors to Holland’s .

I’m thinking I should grab a couple slabs of water and a cart when the fingers close around my elbow. They’re ironclad, biting clamps that dig into bones.

I cry out and turn.

And stare straight into Bron’s writhing fury.

CHAPTER THIRTY

EVERLYY

––––––––

“Bron.”

My voice is a cracked gasp caught in my throat. Wedged tight next to my heart. It wavers as I teeter between fight and flight, and a heavy buzz emanating between my ears.

He’s a vibrating force of barely restrained rage looming over me. It coils off him in heavy wisps that circle my throat and squeezes.

“We need to talk.”

I disagree, but he’s dragging me through the landscape of cars. Vehicles absent of a single soul to call on.

“I don’t want—”

His grip tightens with my protest. It wrenches, folding my arm around behind my back.