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He stepped into my personal space and stared down at me. “You’re pulling away. Are you planning to go back on your word?”
I lifted my chin. “No, I wouldn’t do that. I’ve told you that before.”
My cell beeped. Glad for the distraction, I dug my phone out of my purse.
It was a text message from Freddie: Code red.
My whole body seized up. Shit. I raced to my car, jabbing the button on the key fob to unlock it, ignoring Dane’s shouts. I hopped into the driver’s seat and, without another look his way, sped out of the parking lot.
As I drove en route to my father’s house, my heart thudded hard in my chest. A code red situation could be anything from Simon having an anxiety attack to him cutting himself again. The latter occurrences didn’t happen often. But when they did, they could be bad.
Before long, I was speeding down my father’s street. The tires screeched as I brought the car to a sharp stop outside his house. I jumped out of the vehicle and rushed for the door, cursing when I dropped my keys halfway up the driveway. I bent and snatched them—
A hand grabbed my arm and spun me. Dane. “What’s happening?” he asked.
I blinked, surprised to see him. “You need to go.” I tried pulling my arm free, but he held tight.
“What’s going on? You’re white as a fucking sheet, and you’ve just been driving around the streets like the hounds of hell were on your tail.”
I shook my head. I didn’t have time for this. “I can’t do this right now. Just go. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“I’m not leaving until you tell me—”
“Fucking go, Dane.” I tore my arm out of his grip. “This is not your business.” I raced up the steps, unlocked Simon’s front door and then hurried inside.
Closing the door behind me, I called out, “Dad?” No response. I peeked into the living room. It was empty, but the TV was on. “Dad?” I again shouted. Still nothing.
I stalked into the kitchen and skidded to a halt. He was sitting on the tiled floor, his eyes squeezed shut, his hands fisting his thick dark hair.
I crouched in front of him. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
He awkwardly lifted his head and blinked. I realized he hadn’t acknowledged my arrival until right then. He’d been deep in his thoughts. In his memories. That was never good.
“Dad, what happened? And why is one side of your face pink?”
He touched his cheek. “I fell asleep at the table and …” He trailed off and squeezed his eyes shut.
I took in the dark smudges under his eyes. “You haven’t been sleeping well. Did you have a nightmare just now?” I asked carefully, knowing how badly they could mess with his head.
He shuddered. “I can’t stop seeing it, seeing her.”
There was only one woman he spoke of with such vehemence—his mother. “Dad, open your eyes, look at me.” I gently tugged his hands away from his hair. “Please look at me.”
His eyes fluttered open, and they looked so sad my chest ached.
“You’ve been working on your memories in therapy again?”
He only nodded.
I inwardly cursed. I knew it was important for him to unearth certain memories and face the abuse he suffered at the hands of his mother, but I hated the toll it took on him. Especially since it often led to him having vivid, horrific nightmares. Then he’d be so afraid to go to sleep that he’d lay awake for hours most nights.
There were times when he’d recover a memory so sickening, he simply couldn’t take it. Then the anxiety attacks would come back, or he’d start cutting himself again.
I didn’t say how much I hated what the therapy sessions did to him, though. The therapy was important, and I needed to be supportive of it.
I rubbed his arm. “How about I make us some tea?”
“No tea. I just want to be alone.”
“No, you don’t.” I tugged on his arm as I stood, and he finally pushed to his feet. “You just don’t want to talk about your nightmare. That’s fine. We don’t have to talk. We can just sit together at the table, and you can watch me drink tea. You know how riveting that is.”
He took a seat at the scarred wooden table. “I’m fine now.”
“Of course you are. But now that I’m here, I might as well stay a while.” I grabbed the kettle, filled it with water from the tap, set it down on the—
There was a bang behind me, like the chair had hit the wall.
“Who the hell are you?” demanded Simon.
I whirled. Dane stood in the kitchen doorway. Shit. How had he gotten inside the house?
I slipped between them. “It’s okay, Dad. This is Dane. My boss. I told you about him on the phone, remember?” He didn’t look at me. He kept staring at Dane, his eyes wide, his breaths coming fast. “Dad?”
