Page 16 of Clever Deceit

And I had sworn to her I would do all I could to make this okay. Right now, though, that meant telling her that her ex might have been watching us even more closely than we thought.

And I wished it hadn’t come to this.

CHAPTER 9

LILY

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I LEANED AGAINST THE counter, trying to focus on the tomatoes I was supposed to be slicing. I was still shaken from the Mark McCarthy situation earlier in the day and knew I shouldn't be handling a sharp knife. I probably shouldn't even be standing up. My legs didn't seem to be working right, and I was still surprised I'd managed to get home without pulling over and throwing up.

Maybe it was because I'd been so desperate to get back to safe ground and knew that pulling over would just give Mark a chance to catch up to me.

Warren had been acting strange since he had gotten back from picking up groceries—at least, that’s what it felt like to me, but I wasn’t actually certain about it. Maybe I was just paranoid after the encounter earlier in the day. I hadn't told Warren what had happened, and I certainly hadn't told my mother. She'd immediately remember what it had been like when I was with Tony—and what it had been like when I left—and I didn't want her to worry. She was doing well with her rehab at this point, her legs getting stronger, and I didn't want to interrupt that with some silly story about seeing Mark in the bakery.

I was thinking, though, that I might cross the bakery off my list of places to go from here on out. So far I'd been there twice and met Tony and then Mark. I didn't really like that record. It might be a bakery that my family owned, and it definitely had the best cookies around, but no shortbread was worth putting my life in danger.

I'd called Amy the moment I was out on the road to make sure she was okay, of course, and she'd said that Mark had left as soon as I did—without buying anything. That just made me certain that he'd gone in there for no reason but to harass me.

Which made me even less likely to ever go back there.

I'd just have to ask Amy to start delivering cookies to the house.

The thought made me smile a bit, and I came back into reality just as I was about to slice my own thumb from not paying attention. I stopped the knife at the last second and jerked my thumb out of harm's way, the smile dying on my lips.

Warren glanced at me from the stove, where he was stirring the spaghetti, and gave me a worried look. “You okay over there? You didn't cut yourself, did you?”

“Managed to get my thumb out of the way just in time,” I said, holding up my undamaged thumb as proof. “I'm good.”

He narrowed his eyes, though, and I knew what he was thinking: that I hadn't been the same when I got home from the store. That I'd come rushing into the house without bothering to get the groceries out of the van, and that Silver had been riled up and barking at any sound all afternoon. Warren wasn't stupid, and he'd basically spent every moment since we met somehow looking after me. He knew that something had happened to upset me.

He also knew, I thought, that there was something I wasn't telling him.

I didn't want him to worry over something that could have just been my imagination running away with me, and I certainly didn't want him making any more trouble for himself. He'd already escaped one fight with the cops, and I didn't know how he'd managed it. The cops in this town were bought and paid for by Mark McCarthy, and I wouldn't have put it past them to arrest anyone who looked at them wrong. If Mark put it out there that Warren was with me and was to be shot on sight, he wouldn't have a prayer.

So I wasn't going to tell him anything that he might react badly to. I wasn't going to tell him anything that might lead to him getting himself in trouble.

Because now that I'd found him, I wasn't willing to risk losing him.

Once dinner was ready, we took the dishes to the small kitchen table where we'd been eating most of our meals and put everything down, scooting over plates, cups, and the centerpiece to make room.

“You know we could have just left it on the counter and fixed our plates there,” my mother observed.

“If we did that, it would feel more like a buffet. Less like dinner,” Warren observed. “And I didn't slave over a hot stove to have the effect ruined.”

My mother looked at me and rolled her eyes at that, and I stifled a smile. Since he'd moved in, Warren had declared himself the chef of the house and started cooking as many meals as he could. And that would have been great, except that his culinary expertise was somewhat lacking. My mother and I had stepped in to 'help' where we could, though he still insisted on picking out the menu.

We were eating a lot of meals made of pasta and ground beef.

I wasn't complaining. Really. But I did find it funny that he wanted to brag about things like spaghetti with basic sauce.

“Mom,” I said, changing the topic as I loaded my plate, “how was your appointment?”

She'd been down to see her physical therapist today, and I knew her surgeon had arranged to meet with them to go over some of the results from the scans he'd taken. My mom had been out of surgery for several weeks now, and they were starting to see some healing in her legs but were worried about some of the ligaments in her knees. That was, as far as I knew, the point of the surgeon making an appearance.

My mother's face turned serious at my question, and my heart got heavy. I knew that look. It had never meant good news.

“Actually, I need to talk to you two about that,” she said, putting her fork down. “The surgeon did his scans, and whatever he saw made him unhappy. He says the ligaments in my knee aren't rebuilding the way they should and that I...” Her voice broke, but she carried on. “He says I need reconstruction. It'll be another surgery and at least six weeks of recovery with more physical therapy. But after that, he thinks I might be able to walk on my own again.”