Page 6 of Faded Rhythm

Sable

The drive is quiet.

Uncomfortably quiet.

I have a mind to turn on the radio, but I don’t think my still trembling fingers will cooperate.

King—not his real name, I’m sure—sits beside me in the passenger seat, his broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his hands resting loosely on his thighs.

He’s too big for this little SUV; I can’t help but notice the way his knees brush the glove box, one boot wedged against the door.

His eyes are on the road ahead, but I can feel his awareness stretching beyond it, like he’s scanning and analyzing every inch of the world around us even though his eyes aren’t moving.

He put his gun in my glove box when he first got in, something I appreciate while being acutely aware of its awful presence.

The silence stretches on until he finally breaks it.

“What are their names?”

It takes me a minute to realize he’s talking about my daughters. I grip the steering wheel tighter, my fingers going cold.

“Rae and Kelice,” I say quietly, feeling as though I’ve betrayed them somehow.

He nods once. “They seem like good kids.”

I stiffen. He said it so calmly, so sure. Too sure.

“You’ve been watching them,” I say. It’s not a question.

But he nods again. No apology or explanation. “I was watching you,” he says. “I happened to see them in the process.”

That doesn’t make me feel better.

I focus on the road, my jaw tight, my chest getting that tight feeling again. Panic. Panic at the thought of my babies being watched without me knowing. My stomach twists again, and I almost pull over.

I don’t even post them on social media. Brett does, because you can’t project the image of a loving family man without the family. But I never do.

“I understand you feeling uneasy. This is a strange situation.”

“That’s one word for it,” I mutter, injecting a little sarcasm to mask my growing panic.

Another beat of silence passes. His presence is so…dense. It’s like driving with a hurricane in the passenger seat.

I stop at a red light and glance over at him. He’s looking out the window now, expression unreadable.

“Do you have kids?” I ask.

His answer is a clipped, “No.”

I wait for more. None comes.

“Family?” I press. “Around here?”

He finally turns his head toward me, his expression hard. “I don’t talk about my life.”

I bristle at the brusqueness of his words.

“Understood,” I say a little too sharply.

Is it, though? Not really. I don’t even know his real name, but he knows my daily schedule, the layout of my house, my children’s names and faces. The polite thing to do would be to give me something .

Although, when I think about it, I suppose the something is the fact that I’m still breathing.

I pull into the car rider line and inch forward between minivans and SUVs. The afternoon sun casts long shadows across the pavement, and I force myself to breathe slowly. The familiar routine soothes me. But not for long.

I see them. My girls, backpacks on, standing with a teacher near the awning. My heart swells and clenches at the same time.

The teacher walks them over, opens the door, and they climb in, both smelling like outside.

“Hi Mommy!” Kelis chirps. “Who’s that?”

I freeze. I can’t believe I didn’t think up a lie before I got here. I glance at King, who stares right back, saying nothing.

I smile tightly. “This is my cousin, King. He’s visiting from New York.”

King raises a perfect eyebrow at me, then does something I’m woefully unprepared for. He smiles.

It’s not a smirk. Not a sly grin. It’s genuine and warm, and it makes something flutter in my belly.

He just looks so unfairly good when he smiles. Like it unlocked a whole other part of his face. It softened the hard edges a little, making his eyes look brighter.

I clear my throat and face forward, pulling off once the girls are in their seatbelts.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, turning in his seat to face them. “How was school?”

Sir.

No.

Let’s not do this.

I wanna scream at him to leave them alone, but he’s just making conversation. Being polite. And maybe that’s a good thing. They don’t need to be afraid.

Besides, they both lit up like a Christmas tree when he asked.

“Good!” Rae squeals. “We had pizza today. I traded my cookie for Jackson’s applesauce. My sister drew a horse.”

“I drew a unicorn,” Kelice corrects with an eyeroll.

“Sounds like a pretty good day,” he says, voice smooth and steady.

Rae giggles. “You talk funny. Like a robot.”

He chuckles. “Maybe I am.”

They giggle harder.

And somehow, I find myself laughing softly as well. Partly because their laughter always brings me joy, but also because they clocked the robotic, monotone nature of King’s voice. I’d heard it before but couldn’t place it.

My laughter dies down, but my smile lingers. I glance over at him. He looks at me. Our eyes meet and linger just a second too long.

And there it is again. The fluttering. The tension inside me that’s dancing somewhere between fear and…something else. Something deeper. Something good. Something that feels good.

I look away first, swallowing hard.

We pull into the garage. I walk down the driveway to check the mail like I always do. While I’m reaching into the box, I see him moving around to the back of the car. He opens the door and the girls bounce out. Rae grabs his hand, and Kelice grabs his elbow to steady herself. And he lets them.

They’re giggling again at something he said that I can’t hear. I’m frozen where I stand, watching this tableau with a queasy stomach and an eagle eye.

I don’t like it one bit. It’s unsettling. It’s…too easy the way he fits into the picture.

They wait for me to open the door to the house. Turn off the alarm. Tell them to get a snack. Ask them if they have homework. Same old, same old, except for the killer standing in my foyer watching me.

He’s not leering. Just observing. His gaze doesn’t feel threatening—but it doesn’t feel harmless, either.

“You’re…good with kids,” I say cautiously.

He lifts a shoulder. “I like kids. They’re honest.”

“Brutally,” I say with a smile.

This is so wrong. All of it.

What am I doing? I shouldn’t feel this comfortable.

I shouldn’t feel heat simmering beneath my skin.

I shouldn’t have such a keen awareness of him, of how broad his chest is under that black shirt, or how his hand looked with Rae’s little fingers hooked around it, or the moment when I laughed and we locked eyes. The flutters.

And I definitely shouldn’t want to know what his hands would feel like if they touched me.