Once Upon A Half-Time 2(123)

He wanted to blackmail me again? It wouldn’t work. The kind of money the chief demanded came from jobs. Important ones. Jobs I didn’t like to do, especially since the only man who could pay them ended up owning my ass for as long as he wanted.

At least it had once given Chelsea freedom from Chief Craig…until the money dried up. Until I tried to make a difference. Until I tried to save her.

A year ago, I told Chief John Craig to fuck off and leave my sister alone.

Three days later, Josie’s store burned to the ground.

For the past year, I was convinced the chief framed me for arson…but then Josie showed me the plans and drawings Nolan Rhys ordered for Sweet Nibbles. Both men had reason to hurt me.

I thought rotting in jail while imagining my revenge was torment. I was wrong. The real torture was now, the tightness eating away at my chest.

Nolan or the chief. Which one was the arsonist?

Or was someone in the town still playing with the matches in their pocket?

“Andrew?” Chelsea frowned. “Are you okay?”

No.

I wasn’t.

I pointed to the room. “This is paid through the night. Stay here. If you need it for another day, tell the clerk to reserve it again.”

“Wait…” She followed me as I shouldered my leather jacket. I handed her the room key and a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet. “Where are you going?”

“Something came up.”

“Now?”

My head pounded, and my gut churned. I didn’t let myself have panic attacks, but the weight on my chest felt goddamned uncomfortable. The run across town wouldn’t feel good either. But I did it. I left Chelsea in the hotel and kept to the side streets as I lurked through Saint Christie like every nightmarish figure the town saw in me.

Too bad tonight I wasn’t causing chaos. I was trying to prevent another crime—or to prevent the same one from occurring again.

I slammed my fist against Josie’s door. Three hard knocks—just enough to scare the piss out of the girl I tried to protect.

The shuffling silenced inside her apartment. The living room light flicked on. She didn’t approach the door. I thudded again, hard, rattling the entire frame.

My phone buzzed.

I swore, reading her name on the screen.

I knew what would happen. She wouldn’t let me in. She’d tell me to go home. She’d think I was acting crazy, that her friends and family and the entirety of the fucking town was right about how dangerous it was around me.

I answered with a dragging sigh. “Sweets, hear me out—”

“Maddox, someone’s outside my apartment.”

My heart thudded, pulsed, and shredded against my lungs.

Josie sounded terrified—not like the pounding scared her, but that she feared who might be lurking on her porch.

Why?

Who the fuck did she have to fear?

Like I didn’t know the answer to that question.

“Sweets, I’m outside. Let me in.”

She edged the door open an inch. The call ended as she fought the chain, threw the door open, and dropped the rolling pin to the floor.

She leapt into my arms.

“You planning on shoving an intruder in your oven?” I held her close, even as she laughed over her weapon of choice. “Next you’re gonna attack someone with a container of Pam.”

“Death by chocolate?”

I touched her cheek, savoring the softness of her skin. “Only way to go.”

Josie’s smile humbled me. She let me edge inside but didn’t say a word. She locked the door behind her—chain and all.

Not something people in Saint Christie did before bed. Then again, most of the residents weren’t armed when they answered the door. Even less wielded baking implements. She didn’t even think to grab a knife.

Christ, why was she worrying about such bullshit?

“What happened? Why are you protecting yourself with a whisk?” I asked.

Josie pointed the rolling pin at me. “Whisks aren’t good weapons. I’d probably need a heavy spatula at least.”

“Sweets.”

“Or maybe a crème brûlée torch.”

“Josie.”

“Think I could get someone to stick their hand in a blender?”

“I’m serious. What’s got you spooked?”

Josie crossed her arms, hiding behind a white tank top and pink pajama bottoms, complete with embroidered cupcakes. Cute. Sweet. Just like her.

“Random people, banging on my door in the middle of the night?”

“It’s ten o’clock.”

“You remember Saint Christie, don’t you? Eight o’clock was for mischief. Nine o’clock is the witching hour. Bad news comes after dark.”

That wasn’t the reason she was scared. She knew it. I knew it.