Page 53 of Drowning in Darkness

“Are you looking for something in particular?” he utters.

Yes, clues to the woman who owns these mysterious clothes as well as the promised garments themselves.

“Mothballs.”

He shakes his head as he opens a drawer and nods at the stacks of muted cotton colors. I frown as I pull out a grey pair of sweats. I am not one to sit on questions and let them spiral in my mind, which, without oversight, is a scary place. So I gather my courage and voice my questions. “Why are your girlfriend’s clothes in the guest room?” That wasn’t actually my question, but it kills two birds with one stone.

He tilts his head. “Why would their clothes be in here? If I brought a woman here and decided to lay down roots, her dresses would be hanging next to my shirts.”

Which means he doesn’t have a girlfriend, and these clothes are, what? I notice the tags clearly showing that they’re new.

He sighs at my silence. “I have them on hand at all of my properties. The girls I pry away from the organization need comfort, safety, and cleanliness. That’s what Agent Sinclair advised.”

That makes sense, and yet he believes himself to still be a bad person. That aspect of him runs so deep it’s probably impossible to alter. “So they come here?”

He shakes his head. “No, this is the one place I don’t share. But I keep them to throw in the car when needed.”

Can’t he see the thoughtfulness behind each of these actions? I don’t believe the universe operates on balances, like offsetting your bad actions with good and hoping that gets you in the right direction once you die. It’s all in the intention. Did you set out to hurt someone? Do you take pleasure in their pain? But these are deep and meaningful conversations best reserved for another day.

I grab a white T-shirt from the drawer and offer him a smile of thanks. “Is it okay for me to use the shower?”

He doesn’t move until I slide my eyes toward the door.

He clears his throat and opens the lowest drawer to reveal a pile of unassuming, comfortable cotton underwear. “Help yourself. I’ll place an order for anything else you need.”

I dangle a pair of black cotton panties from my finger. I can’t resist a little needling.

He sighs and turns to leave. “Going to hell,” he grumbles as he leaves me alone.

I take my time exploring the guest room, then experiment in the shower with no fewer than fourteen settings. What happened to turning it on and just rolling with it?

I find a new toothbrush and decide not to push my host. Not today, anyway. I’m sure there is time for that. I’m just grateful to finally be somewhere off the grid where I can breathe and digest everything that’s happened over the last few days.

By the time I emerge in the soft new clothes, hair washed and wet and hanging down my back, there is a scent of rich tomato sauce brewing in the air.

My stomach rumbles as I pad barefoot on the polished wooden floor. This lodge is stunning. I didn’t get a chance to fully appreciate it, but it’s being cared for by someone who wants to create not just a home but a haven. I eyeball the grand piano in a room filled with floor to ceiling bookcases and vow to explore that after I torment the man who is always looking for an excuse to leave my orbit.

I follow the scent into the open-plan kitchen where James stands over a pan, sleeves rolled to his forearms as he stirs a rich tomato sauce with the same concentration most people reserve for diffusing bombs.

“You cook?”

He glances over his shoulder. “People tend to require food.”

“I wasn’t sure you consumed anything except black coffee and guilt.”

His shoulders rise with the smallest breath that might almost be amusement. “I’ve got something for you.”

My mind spins in several wildly inappropriate directions.

He crosses to the long dining table where an open laptop sits beside a neat stack of files. I skim my hand over the smooth wood and marvel at the unusual threads of melted copper infused with the rich mahogany.

He points at the computer screen. A browser window fills the screen with what appears to be a supermarket order. “I’ve started a basket. Add whatever you need.”

I grin. “You trust me not to buy a thousand bottles of hair mask?”

“What is a hair mask?” He shakes his head. “Actually, don’t tell me. I trust my card limit.”

I narrow my eyes before sliding into the chair. “You’re no fun.”