“They lured him onto the ice.” I snatch my pants and my shirt off the dressing screen. “They lured them both. And then…”
“The ice broke. Caleb fell in.”
“He was sucked into a rift.”
“That no normal human can see.”
I breathe, acutely aware of the pain in my ribs, all while realizing Rafe is right. But still. I grab my socks off the dressing screen, too. “Lainey lied to the police. She said they tried to help.”
Rafe quirks an eyebrow. “And you would know this how?”
“The pearl showed me.”
“Ah.” He scoops up his glass of bourbon and takes a swig. “The pearl.”
I run my hand over my hair. It’s as damp as theclothes I have gathered in my arms. “Brady saw me,” I say, panic beginning to swirl. “He’s going to tell the police I was there. My dad’s Bronco is?—”
“Parked in front of your carriage house.”
I look at Rafe. “How?”
“Denis handled it.”
I shake my head. “I need to go. I need to get back to the quarry. I need to?—”
“Take a breath,” he says, stepping in front of me, the fire casting deep shadows along his jawline.
I open my mouth to tell him to move, get out of the way. Instead, I start coughing, which sets my chest on fire. I double over, hugging my middle, as though doing so might mitigate the pain.
Rafe bends with me, his hand sliding up my back. “Selah?”
Our eyes meet.
They hold.
Then I shake him off and step away.
He’s close. Much too close. And he saved me. Rafe Vandenberg—of all people—has now saved my life not once, but twice. In the span of a single week. I have no idea what to make of this. I only know I need to get out of his room. I need to speak with the police. I have no idea where my coat is, where my shoes are. I only know that I must go. Right now. With my feet bare, I bundle my wetclothes against my chest and all but run out of Rafe’s bedroom. Only to collide with someone in the hallway.
Strong hands reach out to steady me.
Jude’s hands.
He steps back, his eyes widening—at the sight of me in his home. Coming out of Rafe’s bedroom. Dressed in Rafe’s clothes.
38
TWO MORE
Ihurry after him—down the corridor, through the upper hall, into his bedroom suite. He stands near his four poster bed, gripping one of the columns with his back to the door, his shoulders rising and falling. His leather suitcase sits beside the tree we decorated a couple weeks ago. The sight of it wilting in the corner makes me want to weep.
“You’re back,” I say, not knowing what else to say. My voice is still hoarse, my hair still damp. I curl my bare toes. “Did the specialist know how to help?”
Jude turns around, and the shadows beneath his eyes are all the answer I need.
Despair digs into my shoulders like the talonsof those psychotic birds. The specialist didn’t help. Jude’s soul is still bound to that ruby.
“Why are you in Rafe’s clothes?” he asks, his attention roving down the length of my body, then back up again, pausing briefly at the bundle in my arms.
