Page 41

I watched as he made his way back toward the guest room, his steps careful and measured like he was still expecting the ground to fall away beneath him. When I heard the door click shut, I let out a long breath and sagged against the counter.

My mind whirled with everything Jesse had shared.

A boy taken and imprisoned by a powerful man.

Tortured and abused? My breath hitched. Did that mean rape?

My hands shook as I washed the dishes, memories of my own past rising unbidden.

I'd been luckier than Jesse—my grandmother had saved me before the worst could happen—but I recognized the haunted look in his eyes all too well.

I dried my hands and moved quietly down the hall to check on Chris.

He was sprawled across our bed, still in his boxers and t-shirt, sound asleep.

The strain of his shift had melted away in slumber, making him look younger.

I brushed a gentle kiss against his forehead before pulling the door mostly closed.

Back in the kitchen, I glanced at my phone and hesitated.

I was tempted to google missing kids based on what he’d told me, but that would mean breaking Jesse's confidence, and the fragile trust he'd just begun to show.

I set the phone down, deciding it could wait until tomorrow.

Until I could talk to Chris about it first.

Instead, I made a mental inventory of what we had in the house and what we'd need. Jesse would need clothes that fit, toiletries of his own. A phone, eventually. I began making a list, the planning helping to channel my anger into something productive.

By the time I finished the list, the early afternoon sun was streaming through the kitchen windows, and I knew Chris would need to wake up soon or he wouldn’t sleep tonight.

I made myself a cup of tea and sat at the table, listening to the quiet house.

Chris's soft snores drifted from our bedroom, but there was no sound from the guest room.

I hoped Jesse was finally getting some rest.

I couldn't stop thinking about what he'd told me. Graham. Someone with “power”, whatever that meant. Someone who'd presented himself as a savior only to become a captor. The calculated cruelty of it made my blood boil.

My phone buzzed with a text from Miguel, my assistant manager at the restaurant, asking about tomorrow's specials. I quickly replied, grateful for the distraction. The restaurant had been my dream since culinary school, and even on my days off, it kept me grounded.

A soft cry from the guest room caught my attention, followed by what sounded like a muffled moan. I set my mug down and moved quickly but quietly down the hall, pausing outside Jesse's door. Another whimper came from inside, and I knocked gently.

"Jesse? Everything okay in there?"

No response, just the sound of rapid breathing. I hesitated, not wanting to invade his space, but concerned.

"Jesse, I'm going to open the door, okay? Just to check on you."

When there was still no answer, I slowly turned the handle and peered inside.

The room was dim with the curtains drawn, but I could make out Jesse's form on the bed the bed, sheets tangled around his legs.

He was still asleep, but caught in what was clearly a nightmare, his thin body jerking as he mumbled broken pleas.

"No... please... I'll be good..."

I approached slowly, keeping my movements deliberate. "Jesse," I called softly, not wanting to startle him. "Jesse, you're safe. It's just a dream."

His eyes flew open, wild with panic. For a moment, he didn't seem to recognize where he was, his chest heaving with rapid breaths.

"It's Saul," I said, perching on the edge of the bed. "You're at our house, remember? You're safe."

Recognition slowly dawned in his eyes, followed by embarrassment. He struggled to untangle himself from the sheets, his movements frantic, but then with absolutely no warning at all, he launched himself at me.

"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I didn't mean to?—"

"Nothing to be sorry for," I assured him, trying to process the too-thin arms wrapped around my neck, and not to hug him too tight back. "Nightmares are normal after what you've been through."

Jesse didn’t let go. Seemed unable to. "Did I wake Chris?"

I shook my head. "He sleeps like the dead after a shift. Trust me, a freight train running through here couldn't wake him right now."

A ghost of a smile touched Jesse's lips before vanishing. He dropped his arms, ran a trembling hand through his hair, which had dried in uneven waves. “Sorry,” he whispered.

"You have nothing to apologize for," I said quietly. I stayed where I was, careful not to crowd him but wanting him to know I wasn't going anywhere.

Jesse looked down at his hands, twisting them in his lap. "I keep thinking he's going to find me."

"He won't," I said with more confidence than I felt. I couldn't promise that, not really, but I needed Jesse to feel safe. "And even if he tried, he'd have to get through Chris and me first."

A flicker of something—maybe hope—crossed Jesse's face. "You don't even know me."

"I know enough," I repeated my words from earlier. "And I know what it's like to be afraid of the people who should have protected you."

Jesse looked up at me then, his blue eyes searching mine. "How did you... how did you stop being afraid?"

I considered his question carefully. "I didn't, not completely. But I learned that there are good people in the world too. My grandmother. Chris." I smiled slightly. "It gets easier, with time and with the right people around you."

He nodded, absorbing this. The silence stretched between us, but it wasn't uncomfortable.

"Would you like something to drink?" I asked finally. "Water, tea? I think there's some hot chocolate somewhere."

"Hot chocolate?" Jesse's voice had a childlike wonder to it that broke my heart.

"One hot chocolate coming up," I said, standing. "You can watch me make it. It's better than the packet stuff."

Jesse followed me to the kitchen, his steps cautious but steadier than before. I kept my movements deliberate as I gathered milk, cocoa powder, and sugar. The normalcy of the task seemed to calm him.

"We had a cook who used to make it from scratch too," he said unexpectedly, perching on a stool at the counter. "Before everything... happened."

I glanced at him, encouraged by this small offering of his past. "Italian or Mexican style?"

"Italian, I think? She'd add a little cinnamon."

I smiled, reaching for the cinnamon sticks in my spice rack. "Mexican hot chocolate can have cinnamon too, but she was clearly a woman of excellent taste."

As I whisked the mixture on the stove, I noticed Jesse watching my hands with intense concentration, like he was memorizing the process.

It struck me then how young he really was—nineteen, with a year of his life stolen.

What had his plans been before Graham had taken him?

College? Career? All those normal milestones of early adulthood, derailed by cruelty.

If they’d had a cook they weren’t without money.

"Do you cook?" I asked, keeping my tone conversational.

Jesse nodded. "I used to. At home, before..." He swallowed. "And I worked at a diner for a while, after I left home. Nothing fancy, but I liked it."

I poured the hot chocolate into two mugs, adding a cinnamon stick to each as a stirrer. "I own a restaurant in town. Nothing too fancy either—upscale comfort food, we call it."

"Really?" For the first time, genuine interest sparked in Jesse's eyes. "What kind of food?"

"A mix. Italian roots from my grandmother, Southern influence from growing up in Georgia, and whatever else inspires me." I slid a mug toward him. "Careful, it's hot."

Jesse wrapped his hands around the mug, seeming to savor the warmth as much as the drink itself. He took a cautious sip, and a small, genuine smile curved his lips. "This is amazing."

"Secret's in the ratio of cocoa to sugar," I said, pleased by his reaction. "And using whole milk."

We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, both sipping our drinks.

“Do you wanna watch some TV?” I asked, then with another thought I pulled my tablet toward me.

“I really need to order you some clothes. Even mine are way too big.” I chuckled and looked up.

“Chris’s would drown you.” But my voice faded as I took in the tears stark in Jesse’s eyes and the slight tremble of his bottom lip.

“Sweetheart, what is it?” I urged immediately standing and stepping around the counter, curving my arm around his shaking shoulders.

“Jesse you’re safe. I—” but as I lowered my head to talk to him, he looked up.

I caught a flash of such intense longing it startled me before his lips abruptly fastened to mine.

For a split second I was so shocked I didn’t pull back.

“What the fuck?” Chris boomed from the doorway, and we both jerked back at the same time.

Jesse made an agonized sound of distress, jumped to his feet, and dashed to the back door and was out of it before either of us reacted.