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We’re all on edge, and it’s hard enough for me to keep my cool around this man. Four protective boys are going to have an even harder time—especially if I’m here. I can already feel them puffing up around me, aggression and anger making their bodies tense.
“I—I think I have to bail on dinner,” I mutter to the twins, restraining myself from glancing over at Hollowell again as I speak. “This isn’t a good idea.”
“Agreed.” Dax’s jaw muscle jump. “I’ll tell mom you’re sick. She’ll be mad, but she won’t drag you back down here if she thinks you’re liable to barf on someone.”
“Okay.” I nod, panic making the motion choppy and fast. “Will you guys be okay down here by yourselves?”
“Yeah, we’ll manage,” Chase says. “We’ll stay out of his way. He’s got no reason to talk to us, so hopefully he’ll keep his distance.”
He glances toward the gaggle of adults on the far side of the room, his expression bored and disinterested. He’s a pretty bad poker player, but he can bluff well when he has to.
I nod, cast one more look at the four boys, then turn and bolt for the door. Evelyn glances at me with annoyance as I go, but I don’t slow down, leaving the twins to deal with her.
Another well-dressed couple and their daughter are being ushered into the house as I head up the broad stairway on the left to the second floor. When I reach the guest room I’m staying in, I shut the door behind me and lean against it, willing my heart to beat slower.
I stay there for several long minutes, anticipating a knock at any second as Evelyn demands that I return to her damn dinner party.
But it doesn’t come.
Slowly, I peel myself away from the door and cross the room to sit on the bed. The house is so big and spread out that even though thirty people are talking and laughing downstairs, I can’t hear any of it. It’s eerie, like I’m in some kind of ghost house, quiet and abandoned.
Time seems to slow to a crawl, and I curl up on the bench seat by the window and crack open a textbook, but I can’t stop looking over at the clock.
6:15.
6:30.
7:00.
They’re all sitting down for dinner now, having spent an hour schmoozing and drinking. My stomach feels like it’s folding in on itself as I wonder if the guys have been able to keep their shit together, to keep their hatred and mistrust of Hollowell hidden.
It doesn’t help that I haven’t actually eaten dinner. It feels like there’s nothing in my stomach but churning acid, and it’s only getting worse. I think longingly of the days when Mom’s little apartment was right around the corner from me in the Black house, and I could walk over and have dinner with her without ever having to set foot downstairs.
But there’s no food up here. I don’t even have a damn granola bar in my backpack.
At seven-thirty, I decide everyone must be settled in at the dining room table. I don’t know the Lauders’ cook as well as I knew Gwen, but I’ve seen her in the kitchen from time to time when I was hanging out with the guys. She’s an older woman who dotes on the two boys like they’re her own sons—at least someone around here does—and she’s always been friendly with me. I bet if I pop into the kitchen, she’ll take pity on me and give me something to eat.
My footsteps are light as I pad down the hall. I’m still wearing the dress I put on for dinner, but my feet are bare. I glance over the railing as I near the stairs, but I don’t see anyone in the foyer. On the way to the kitchen, I pass near enough to the dining room to pick up the hum of voices, but I’m careful to take the route that keeps me from seeing anyone inside the room—and vice versa.
Inside the large kitchen, Caroline is in her zone, working hard to make sure the diners’ next course is perfect, but she points me in the direction of some leftover hors d’oeuvres I can grab.
I load up a napkin with several bite-sized sandwiches, then hurry back toward my room. As I round the corner back into the foyer, I stub my toe on the molding that lines the walls of the room where they meet the floor. One of the sandwiches falls from my napkin, and I let out a low curse, sucking in a pained breath as I bend to pick it up.
“I thought you weren’t feeling well.”
The voice behind me brings me up short. I hesitate, my muscles going so tight that I practically crush the food I still have gathered in my napkin.
Judge Hollowell’s tone is mildly curious, and when I look back over my shoulder, he’s got his head cocked, watching me with interest.
“I—I’m not. I just thought maybe something little would settle my stomach.”
I grab the fallen sandwich off the floor and put it on top of the others, not even bothering to brush it off. The floors here are so clean I could probably eat off of them, and besides, I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat anything at all anymore. Fear has turned my stomach into a block of cement.
“Ah.” He nods. “That makes sense. I usually do saltines and ginger ale whenever I get sick. It helps.”
“Yeah.” I hold my little napkin bundle in both hands, trying to subtly back away from him. I want to end this conversation as quickly as possible. I want to flee.
“How’s your mom been doing?” Hollowell asks, taking a step forward that’s a lot bigger than the one I just took back.
