Page 40 of Theo (Stone Brothers #6)

The breeze is stronger in Rockhurst. I will my feet forward toward town.

Kinsley and her sister live behind the pharmacy building in a small stone and wood bungalow.

The pharmacy sign has changed too. Mr. Grimley, the pharmacist, retired and moved away with his wife and special needs daughter during our senior year.

He was always nice and would hand us gumballs whenever we walked into the drugstore.

Kinsley and I spent hours in the makeup aisle checking out the new colors and mascaras, and he never yelled at us or told us to move on even though he knew we weren't going to buy anything.

A few cars roll past slowly, obviously pausing to see who the wet, crumpled looking stranger is trudging through town.

I turn the corner down Kinsley's street.

The neighboring cottage has been remodeled to look glassy and modern.

I stop in front of Kinsley's house. Her grandmother's yellow rose bushes are still blooming, even shrouded with the salty fog.

I stare up at the house, and the tears start again.

The house is dark except for a light on the porch.

They're in bed, or worse, out for the night.

I've come this far, and my head is not only throbbing but dizziness keeps sweeping through it.

I climb the four steps to the front door.

In fall, her grandmother used to put a fat orange pumpkin on each step leading up to the door where you'd then be greeted by a wreath made of pine cones and ribbon.

A text would have been so much less intrusive.

I lift my hand and knock. My fingers are numb from the cold, and my knuckles sting as they hit the hard wood door.

I listen, but there's no movement inside, no sign of a light turning on.

I push the doorbell. The chimes echo through the house.

There is no way to sleep through the noise, but there's no response.

They're not home. I turn around and sink down to sit on the top step.

My weak legs give out halfway, and I land on my ass with a thud.

I suck in a sharp breath and hold it until the pain in my ribs subsides.

I stare out into the foggy darkness. I can sense the familiarity of the town around me, but it doesn't feel like home.

I have no idea where to go, but I know another night out in the cold with no sleep or food will put me in my grave.

I'm at the place, mentally and physically, where I'm making promises to myself—if I survive this, I'll be less career oriented and worry more about just being happy.

If I survive this, I'll call and make amends to people I haven't spoken to, people who felt abandoned by me when I left for college and never looked back, people like Kinsley.

And if I don't survive, I will come back to haunt Genie Ross until the end of her days.

I will torture her with every ghostly means possible to see that she never has a good day again.

I manage a smile as I imagine myself in incorporeal form wandering through Genie's multimillion-dollar house shaking heavy chains and replacing her oat milk with real milk.

Rhonda Dixon. The name pops into my head.

Zach's mom always had a sweet spot for me.

She was more of a mother to me than my own mom, which wasn't saying much, but I still have fond memories of Rhonda highlighting my hair and cooking me a scrambled egg on a cold afternoon when I came to her crying because I flunked a math test. The Dixons owned one of the nicer houses in town.

They weren't rich, but they weren't poor.

Zach's dad worked in corporate law, and Rhonda did medical billing from her home office.

I remember staring out their big picture window with its incredible view of the ocean.

The house was only five or six blocks away.

I hate to wake the Dixons, but I'm desperate. It's truly a matter of life or death.

By the time I reach Cliffside Road, my legs are wobbling, and every part of me is trembling.

My teeth clatter against each other, but I can't stop shivering.

Their house is at the end of a cul-de-sac.

If I had energy, I'd jump for joy. There are several lights on in the house.

Not only are they at home, but they're awake.

I use my last smidgen of strength to pick up my pace.

Rhonda's apple trees are still standing in the front yard.

I climb the black slate steps to the front porch and knock.

I can hear voices inside but not clear enough to recognize.

My head is spinning, and my whole body is shaking so violently I have a hard time keeping my knees from collapsing.

I knock again, more urgently. There's no window on the door, but I hear heavy footsteps crossing the entry.

My fingers are so cold they're barely hanging onto the duffle bag.

The door swings open, and the breath gets caught in my chest. Silver-blue eyes stare at me as if I'm an apparition.

I consider that possibility—that I've died because there is no other explanation for what is happening.

I can no longer hold the duffle. It slips from my fingers.

The trembling rolls like a freight train through my entire body.

There's enough pain in my side to assure me I'm not dead.

"It's you." The words creak out of my dry throat and then I crumple like tissue. I land solidly in his arms. They're way bigger than I remember. My feet leave the ground. I'm too tired to fight what's happening, and his arms are secure and strong.

He pushes the front door shut and carries me into the house. It's warm and dry. My head flops against his hard chest. I summon enough strength to look up at him. Dark beard stubble covers a strong jaw. Something about the set of it tells me he's tense.

"You're the last person I wanted to see." My voice is fading along with all the rational thoughts in my head.

His unearthly blue gaze sweeps down at me. "I know."

I rest my head against him, and something about the way he carries me lets me know it's over, the whole fucking ordeal is over. "This doesn't change anything. I still hate you." My voice is mostly breath now.

"Yeah, I know, Jones."

"You know I hate it when you call me Jones."

"Yep, I know."