“Why did you get divorced?” I asked suspiciously.
“Taylor likes money. I don’t make enough.”
Disgust had me wrinkling my nose. “You’re kidding.”
The way his jaw worked made me realize he wasn’t, and he wasn’t exactly happy to admit someone found him… lacking.
“You’re right,” I said as a strange protective feeling came over me. “She is a bitch. She’s stupid too.”
Relief flooded his eyes. “You believe me?”
“Yeah, I do.” It still didn’t change the fact it was time for me to go. He reached out to take my bag. I pulled it back. “I really do want to get my car.”
He shook his head grimly. “I’ll just get my keys.”
He jogged into the house, retrieved his keys, then shut and locked the door while Taylor stood by looking very smug. I heard the automatic locks inside the truck and stepped forward to climb inside.
But then I stopped.
I turned around and waved my fingers at Taylor. “Don’t worry, I’m nothing to be jealous of. I’m just using Holt for sex. He’s so good in bed.”
Her mouth dropped open.
I climbed in the truck.
Holt was still laughing when he fired up the engine and backed out of the driveway. Since her car was parked right behind his, he had to swerve wide and drive on the lawn before pulling out onto the street and driving away.
Taylor just stood there and watched.
“You’re a little feisty, aren’t you?” he said, giving me an approving stare.
“I am a redhead.”
We didn’t talk after that. I only broke the silence to tell him where my bank was. He waited outside when I went in to get my key. Thankfully, one of the tellers there recognized me and opened the box after I explained my situation and showed her my bandages. Once I had the key, I thanked her profusely and promised to come with my library ID so I could get new account cards and make a withdrawal from my account.
The entire way to my house, my stomach was in knots. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see what was left of my beloved home. I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, and I tried to prepare myself for the reality I was about to face.
Up until now, part of this felt like a bad dream. If I wasn’t sitting here with Holt and feeling the constant nagging of painful burns, I might have been able to convince myself I’d imagined the whole thing.
But then he turned onto my street.
You couldn’t deny what stared you directly in the face.
What was once a sunny yellow two-story home with bright-pink rosebushes lining the front and potted plants decorating the porch now looked like something out of a horror movie.
Some of the structure was partly standing. The remaining timbers were black and brittle looking. The roof had long since caved in and a few scorched shingles littered the ashy covered grass. Most of the walls had fallen down; only two outside walls still partly remained. The concrete steps that once led to the front door were all blackened with fire marks and soot. All the flowerpots that held colorful annuals were shattered. Pieces of clay and dirt lined the once swept clean walkway.
It looked so out of place sitting there in the center of the small, tucked away neighborhood amongst the cheerful houses and blooming flowers. It was almost as if my house resided in a completely different universe than those on each side. Like hell had opened up some sort of portal of destruction, unleashed its wrath on only my little slice of the country, and then vanished, leaving behind the skeletal remains of what was once a peaceful life.
I looked past the house directly into the small backyard, taken up mostly by the kidney shaped pool. Debris floated in the water, pieces of my life that were too ruined to identify. And beside it… sitting on the concrete just beside the pool…
Was a chair.
My chair.
The one I was tied to.
In fact, a length of rope still lay coiled beneath it.
I felt as if I were in a vacuum and the memories of my attempted murder were trying to suck me up where all I could do was relive them over and over again.
“I should have had that moved,” Holt said, coming up just behind me to stand.
I tore my gaze away from the chair, away from the rope that tried to hold me hostage. “The police told me they would let me know when the house was clear, and I could search it for anything that might have survived,” I told him as a breeze ruffled my hair. It also drifted the still lingering scent of melted plastic and burned timber toward us. “But by the looks of things, there isn’t going to be anything left to save.”
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his fingers brushing across mine.