Kendra's car pulls into the driveway just as the last embers die in the fire pit. She finds us in the backyard, her purse slung over one shoulder, hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. Her smile fades the second she sees us standing there with beers in hand.
"What's going on?"
Reeves glances at me, then back at her. "We need to talk."
We move inside. Kendra sets her purse on the counter and crosses her arms. "Talk."
I tell her. About the letter. The roses. Daniel.
Her face drains of color.
"Wait. So this guy knows you're here? He knows where we live?"
"I don't know how he—"
"Jesus, Liza." She presses her fingers to her temples. "You said he was your ex. You didn't say he was stalking you."
Reeves steps forward. "Kendra—"
"No." She holds up a hand. "I get that you're trying to help her, Reeves. I do. But this is serious. What if he shows up here? What if he does something? To any of us?"
My chest tightens. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't think—"
"That's the problem." Her voice sharpens. "You didn't think. And now we're all at risk."
Reeves' jaw clenches. "Don't talk to her like that."
"Are you kidding me right now?" Kendra turns on him, eyes flashing. "She brought this to our door, Reeves. Our home. Where we sleep."
"She had nowhere else to go."
"And I'm sorry for that. I am. But I can't—we can't—"
"Stop." My voice cracks. "Please, just stop." I look between them, guilt twisting in my stomach. "I'll move. I should've already. I don't want to cause problems for you guys."
Reeves shakes his head. "No. You're not going anywhere."
"Reeves—"
"She's staying." His tone leaves no room for argument. "That's final."
Kendra stares at him, stunned. Then she grabs her purse and walks out without another word.
The bedroom door slams.
I stand there, frozen, the weight of what I've done crushing down on me.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
Reeves exhales and rubs a hand over his beard. "Not your fault."
But it is.
It really, really is.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The pasta is perfect—tender, the sauce rich and tangy with just enough garlic—Julian makes a mean spaghetti and meatballs. He pours more wine into my glass, his hand steady, but I catch the tension in his shoulders.
