Page 39

That I was thankful for, though it surprised me. I was sure the visible evidence of the violence I was bringing to his town would’ve shattered his resolve.

“You kept the house up.” I made the accusation before I could think better of it.

Most people would probably be more thankful for such a nice gesture. But I wasn’t used to nice gestures. If anyone did something nice for me, it was because they wanted something from me or because they were trying to distract me from whatever shitty thing they had done. Or they were some kind of supernatural creature, trying to lull me into a false sense of security before they tried to kill me, eat me, or wear my skin.

Gerald rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I did. Well, Sharon did most of the decorating shit, telling me what I needed to repair.”

I planted my hands on my hips, not surprised since Sharon was the backbone of the Hughes household, both men doing what they were told by the strong WASPY matriarch. She was yet another person I was beholden to. Colton’s warm, kind, loving mother. The prospect of seeing her made me feel vaguely ill, because I wanted to see her. She’d try to hug me, try to connect, and I didn’t know if I was strong—or ruthless—enough to push her away.

Better to just avoid her.

It was interesting that she wasn’t the one delivering the casserole. Good., I told myself.

I reached out, taking the warm dish from Gerald. “Why did you do that?”

When he shifted on his feet, I wondered if he expected me to invite him in. If he did, he’d be waiting a while. “I’m the executor of the will; it was my responsibility to take care of things until you turned eighteen.”

I bristled. “I turned eighteen five states over, and you didn’t hear from me for thirteen years. You’re a cop, and you knew the chances of me coming back here were slim to none, so you should’ve sold this fucking place.”

I did not have the funds to pay Gerald back for all of that shit, and I did not like owing anyone. If you asked around, you’d know I rarely asked for favors, and if I did, I paid back in full, no matter the cost. I had several scars to prove that.

“We rented it out to cover the mortgage, property taxes, repairs.” He shrugged.

I balanced the dish to scratch my nose. “That’s not the part I care about. Why bother?”

He gave me a sad smile that made me feel five years old. “Because I wanted you to have somewhere to come home to. Because that’s what your parents would’ve wanted. For me to keep the proverbial porch light on.”

I would’ve felt less impact if he’d punched me in the stomach.

It took me a second to recover, willing my features to remain blank. “I don’t have a home,” I told him sharply. “Especially not the place where my parents were torn apart.”

He flinched at that. Just like Colton had. Which was what I’d intended. To hurt him, show him that kindness would not be repaid when it came to me. But still, I felt a stab of guilt for hurting a man who didn’t deserve it.

That was an unfamiliar feeling. I didn’t do guilt. It did not serve my survival.

“This is also the home you grew up in.” Somehow, his voice remained soft. “And you can’t choose your home. Even when ugly shit happens, home is still home.”

I locked my jaw against the feelings he was awakening in me. Feelings I thought were dead and buried. Turned out they were just rotting inside me, festering, waiting to bubble up.

“You know, I’m a thirty-year-old woman.” I squared my shoulders. “I’m not a kid. You don’t need to look after me, offer me sage wisdom, or be concerned about where my home is.”

He smiled sadly, eyes glistening. “Hadley, I shared a cigar with your father the night you were born. I was there when he taught you to ride a bike. You grew up with my son, you were his first love. You’re always gonna be that kid to me.”

Then before I could spew any more venom, he leaned in to kiss my forehead and walked away.

“Buy you a drink?”

I glanced to my left. A man was leaning against the bar, too close to where I was perched on a stool, my elbows resting on the sticky surface, hands encircling my whiskey.

I looked him up and down. His polo was pressed, not a wrinkle to be found. Hair gelled within an inch of its life, tan too orange to be real, teeth too straight to be natural. Prior frat boy now finance bro slumming it in the town dive bar, deciding to take a walk on the wild side by hitting on the freakiest-looking chick here.

Most likely trying to impress his equally douchey friends and score an easy lay. I was the sluttiest looking woman in the room, I guessed.

Win for me.

“Sure.” I shrugged. “But I’m not going to talk to you, look at you, and I definitely won’t fuck you.” I drained my drink. “And this isn’t a cutesy, hard to get, banter-type situation. This is I won’t fuck you for a whiskey. Or for your bank account. Not even to save the world from total annihilation.”

The thump of the jukebox sounded as he digested my words. I could feel the fury radiating off him without even looking at him. “You don’t have to be such a bitch.”