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“It was theleasthe could do,” Mom snips, patting my knee.
“And the guy that bugged Braxton’s car? He just gets to get off with no repercussions?” I curl the fingers I have on Braxton’s thigh into the rough material of her jeans.
Dad frowns, looking as displeased by that as I feel. “Rose said she didn’t have a name, and I believe her. I don’t think that if this guy meant to hurt her that he would have just pushed her out of the way.”
A cold sensation slithers through my chest at the idea of what could have happened had the person who broke into her car been intent on really hurting her.
My thigh warms beneath Braxton’s palm, and I turn to her, letting her presence calm me.
“Are you okay with not knowing? Because this is about you, not me or Rose or anyone. I’ll do whatever is necessary to find this guy if that’s what you want,” I say softly.
She smiles at me, head shaking slightly. “I want to forget about it and move on, not drag this out any longer. I believe Rose, and I don’t think I’m in any danger.”
“Okay.” I steal a quick kiss and wrap my arm over her shoulder, pulling her into my side until she’s all but sitting in my lap.
“Now, you need to decide what you want to do next, son. The ball is in your court. Dougie is waiting on your call,” Dad says.
“Tell him that I’ll call him tonight. This is something I have to discuss with Braxton first,” I tell him.
A glimmer of approval lights up Dad’s eyes. “We’ll leave you to it, then. You’re both welcome to stay for dinner too.”
“That would be great,” Braxton replies, and Dad stands, grinning at her.
Mom releases a wobbly breath, squeezing my knee. “I’m proud of you,” she whispers before kissing my cheek and stepping into Dad’s arms as he leads them back into the house, leaving Braxton and me alone.
“Will you come somewhere with me?” I ask her, collecting both of her hands in mine and bringing her knuckles to my lips.
“Anywhere, Dox,” she answers, eyes so soft and warm.
I swiftly pull her up and, with her hands still in mine, tug her down the patio stairs and across the yard. The grass is short, freshly mowed, and the smell of fresh air sparks old memories of days and nights spent out here, just her and me.
Our tree house is tucked off to the side of the yard, in between the side of the house and another massive oak tree that has been here since I was a boy. A tire swing hangs from one of its thick branches, and I’m sure it hasn’t held the weight of a person in years. Not since Adalyn was young enough to hide out in here.
The tree house is more worn than it was the last time I wandered off this way, but it’s still the same. The six red-painted pegs are in the truck of the tree leading up to the opening in the house’s base that’s still shut, keeping the animals out that used to try to make the place their own.
Braxton keeps quiet as I lead us to the stepping pegs we used instead of a ladder. My eyes are drawn to the design in the bark of the tree, the one I have tattooed on my chest.
With a warmth settling behind my ribs, I step on the bottom peg, testing whether or not it can still hold my weight. When it does, I move up to the next one and the next before pushing at the door and letting it flop open with a loud creaking noise, dust flying everywhere.
I push my body through the hole in the floor and move inside, looking around the place to make sure there aren’t any surprises before calling down to Braxton to let her know it’s safe to follow me up.
“Are you sure it isn’t going to collapse with us both inside?” she asks, peeking her head inside, inspecting the tree house with a look of pure awe.
“We used to fit six people in here when we were younger, baby girl. I think it can handle it.”
“Okay,” she mutters before setting her palms on the wood and climbing inside.
“Everything is exactly how we left it,” I say, brushing my fingers over the Warriors logo sewn into the blanket covering the window, held up by two nails, one in each corner.
Two beanbag chairs rest beneath the window, one blue and one purple. A shelf of old books is on the wall opposite, decorated with a ceramic bowl of old guitar picks, a stack of chipped hockey pucks, a dirty paint pallet, and a couple of old vinyls.
“How did none of this stuff get ruined?” Braxton mutters.
“Dad must have closed the shutters every winter.”
I avoided this place for years. I never would have noticed if the shutters outside of the window had been left open or closed.
“I didn’t think I would get to see this place again.”
