Page 24 of Savior
“Bye, Sienna.”
“Later,” I say, then tuck the phone back under my thigh for the remainder of the drive.
Once upon a time, I had a thriving business and employees. Back then, I’d felt a modicum of safety. Now, I knew better. Now, I take whatever job comes my way, keep my head down, and aim for simpler things. Like making sure my bills are paid, I have a roof over my head, and food in my stomach.
Of course, none of that will take away my painful memories or protect me when my past catches up with me, but I’ll figure something out. Hopefully Phil, the journalist whose followed me all over the country waiting on his next big scoop surrounding the murders, will take a hint and leave me the hell alone.
I can’t even comprehend what will happen if he doesn’t.
So I force myself to think of happier things instead. As I near the drive of my new little bungalow, I remind myself that this is a new start.
The past can’t touch me here.
Logan
My phone ringsjust as I’m pulling in the driveway. I answer it with a weary, “Blackwell,” without looking at the caller I.D.
“You sound tired,” Aunt Diane says without preamble.
“Probably because I am.” I turn away from the speaker when I can’t suppress a yawn. All I want is a shower, my recliner, and a good action movie to turn off my brain. I could also use a beer so bad my hands nearly shake with the need.
“I wouldn’t call if I didn’t have to,” she says.
I hold back a groan as I watch my evening of relaxation circle the drain. “It’s okay, I’m just pulling up the drive. Do you need me to come by?”
“I take back all the unpleasant thoughts I’ve had about you. You’re a good boy.” I refrain from pointing out this boy is on the dark side of twenty. “Sienna called this morning to let us know the air conditioner is out in her unit. I tried to call the repairman, but he said he wouldn’t be able to get it until next week! I can’t let that poor girl die of a heat stroke!”
The temperature gauge on my dash says the temp is a cool seventy degrees, but I bite my tongue. Mostly because arguing with women, and Aunt Diane in particular, is futile. “I’ll stop by and see what I can do.”
“Just don’t pester her,” she reminds. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” I say wearily.
I end the call and put my truck in park. All the lights in her house are on and most of the shades are up, allowing me to see right into her living room.
I’ve gotten into a sick, sad habit of just watching her. Though, it’s hard not to when the girl has every light on all the time and every blind in her house open. It’s practically an invitation. At first, it was out of habit and concern for Aunt Diane and Grandma Rose just hiring a stranger, even if she’s Chloe’s friend. When the most exciting thing she did was read books after work, I realized there has to be another reason why I always look to her window before I go to sleep.
Through the living room window, I find her curled on the couch, an empty plate on the coffee table in front of her and a half-full glass of wine to her side. She’s reading again, though this time from a tablet she has propped on her knees. She’s not very big to begin with, but in her curled up position, she looks tiny.
I turn away and open the door to my truck, shoving away all thoughts of what it would be like to curl up next to her. I’m going to go in, fix her air conditioning, and get out. Then I’ll take that shower, only now I think I’ll need to make it a cold one. I know she hears me walking up the porch steps, her whole body tenses, but she doesn’t look up until after I knock.
“Logan,” she says as she stands and moves to the other side of the screen door. She doesn’t open it.
“Aunt Diane said you were having trouble with the air conditioner.” Impatience roughens my voice.
Her lips purse, and she crosses her arms over my chest. “I’m fine,” she says. “There’s supposed to be someone coming by—”
“You’re cracked if you think my aunt will let you go a week without air and heat, especially with colder weather just around the corner. Let me in, I’ll fix it, and then I’ll leave. It shouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes.”
An internal struggle wages across her face, and I wonder if she knows how transparent her expressions are. Frustration, anger, impatience all give way to acceptance. Finally, she takes a step back and allows me inside.
She’s barely been here a month, and already she’s put her stamp on the inside. Even if I could turn the cop off inside me, I’d still be able to get a sense of her from the house alone. It’s neat, almost meticulously so. When I close the door behind me, my eyes land on the top-of-the-line deadbolt and security chain. Those sure as hell didn’t come standard with the place. I had no doubt it would be the same for the back door. The shades are open, but a quick glance confirms all the windows are locked tight.
“It’s just through the back,” she says and I follow her down a dimly lit hallway to the small kitchen identical to my own. Even the light in the small bathroom is turned on.
“I’ll let you know if I need anything,” I say as I unlock the door, smiling because I had been right about the lock situation, and head out to the back porch.
She flips on security lights—new—and they illuminate the entire backyard all the way to the tree line. Shaking my head, I get down to my knees and inspect the unit. Her footsteps retreat into the house, but I know she’ll be watching. Something tells me people being in her space makes her nervous. I can’t help but wonder why that is.