She wanted to tell him it was none of his business but...he’d seen her arm. And her neck. Still, accepting them was one thing, but for her to talk about them was an entirely different one.
“Our house burned down. We were sleeping and didn’t realize it until it was almost too late.” Her heart rate kicked up and she rubbed her sweating palms on her jeans, while trying to control her breathing like the therapist had taught her. “The fire was hot and the smoke was so thick when we woke. Tim shook me awake, and we were crawling to the window when the roof caved in and burning wood rained down on top of us...” She hadn’t told this much of the story to anyone but her therapist. “It was— I woke up in the hospital and they told me Tim hadn’t made it.”
She hadn’t been able to talk about the moments of pain before she’d lost consciousness. Blinking back tears, she rubbed those that had escaped and were rolling down her cheeks. “I didn’t know anything about Tim’s affairs then,” she almost blurted out, but didn’t. She’d believed he’d died loving her. Even after she knew that was a lie, she wouldn’t have wished death on him.
“I’m sorry.” Rowdy came and pulled a chair out so he could sit facing her. He clasped her hands with his and squeezed gently. “That’s tragic. All of it.”
She nodded, closing her eyes. “Yeah, especially knowing I killed him.”
Chapter Nine
“You killed him? I don’t believe that,” Rowdy blurted in reflex. He didn’t know her well, but she hadn’t killed her husband. No way.
She looked away, toward the window that could be seen past the breakfast bar in the front room. “It’s true. The fire started in my studio with some oily rags.”
Guilt was etched in her features when she turned back to him. “That may be the case, but you didn’t start the fire. Things happen. I’m sorry you lost him that way.” He could tell she took what he said with a grain of salt. She looked to be around twenty-five or twenty-six. About his age.
She’d been through a lot for her age. He didn’t know a lot about art, but he thought he knew making money in the art world was almost impossible. So there was one more thing to be curious about.
“You must have loved him very much.” His heart ached for her—having lost his mother at a young age, he knew the pain that went with losing someone you loved.
She lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. She stood suddenly. “Hey, thanks for bringing me home. But I need to get some things unpacked for art class tomorrow.”
“Sure,” he said, knowing a dismissal when he heard it. “You’re sure you’re okay? Do you need anything?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Really. I’m good.” She had begun walking toward the door the moment she’d started speaking. He followed like a puppy being sent outside. She opened the door and held it for him. He ignored the urge to touch her as he walked past. He’d been pretty harsh earlier, and now he felt like a heel.
She didn’t follow him onto the porch.
“Take another couple of those painkillers before you go to bed,” he said, as if the woman didn’t know how to take care of sore muscles.
“I’ll do that. Good night.”
Before he got his good-night out, she’d already closed the door. He stared at it, stunned. Something tugged in his chest. And he wondered for the umpteenth time what had happened to Lucy Calvert. There was more to this story. He felt it to his core.