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“Nah, there’s a studio down in Union I’m using. It’s not as fancy as Dawson’s place but it’s working for now.”
Sparky frowns. “You never partake.”
“Not my thing, Sparky. Makes me a lil’ loopy.” Shelby twirls her finger next to her ear.
“But what if it helped open new creative portals in your mind?” he asks with wide eyes, like he’s stumbled onto a great revelation.
“Huh.” Shelby tilts her head and seems to consider the question, although I think she’s really just humoring him. “Well, next time I get a case of writer’s block—and I’m not on tour or recording—I’ll hit you up for somethin’ special. Deal?” She sticks out her hand.
“Deal.” The tray in Sparky’s hand jostles precariously close to falling as he quickly shakes Shelby’s hand.
Shelby taps my arm. “How’s Libby doing?”
“They let her out of the hospital,” I answer vaguely.
Sparky holds out the tray to me. “No one’s recording your voice.”
Taking one of the brownies will be easier than listening to a lecture about cosmic harmony, so I grab a treat and tuck it into my inner pocket.
Fuck knows I need something to take my mind off of Emily.
CHAPTER NINE
Emily
Having Serena here has been a blessing. While Libby’s more irritable with me than usual, she’s sweet as sugar to Serena.
I can’t help feeling guilty that Serena and Lincoln are here instead of home with Grayson, though.
After dinner, Serena and Libby head upstairs. Serena wants to work on some exercises with Libby so she doesn’t end up injuring or weakening her shoulder while her arm is in the cast.
The doorbell rings and I hurry to answer it.
Grayson’s on the other side.
“Ah, I wondered when you’d stop by.” I open the door wider to allow him inside.
“You okay, Emily?” he asks in a grave tone, stepping over the threshold.
Something about his question, and the concern behind it, pops my emotional balloon. Tears sting my eyes and I sniffle.
“Having Serena has helped a lot.”
“Good.” He holds out his arms and wraps me in a quick, comforting embrace. “You’re not alone, Emily,” he says in a low, soothing rumble.
“Thank you.” I pull away and attempt a smile. “Come in, come in. Serena and Lincoln are upstairs with Libby.”
“Nope. We’re all done. Libby wanted another nap,” Serena says. “Hi, Gray.”
“Hey, buttercup.” His mouth curves, eyes crinkling at the corners as his gaze lands on Serena and Lincoln.
I feel like a chunk of wood standing between two magnets.
I back away and Serena glides closer. Grayson wraps his arms around her and Lincoln, kissing her forehead and brushing his knuckles over Lincoln’s cheeks. “Has he been good?”
“Oh yes,” Serena murmurs. “But I know he’s happy to see you.”
“Grayson, you’re always welcome to stay here too,” I offer, nodding toward the stairs. “We have the room, for sure.”
I hate keeping them apart, but I don’t want Serena to leave just yet. The easiest solution is asking Grayson to stay too.
He dips his chin as if he’s considering the offer. “Thanks, Emily.”
Feeling about as useful as bells on a butterfly, I retreat to the kitchen and turn the burner on under my tea kettle.
Eventually, Grayson decides to spend the night, leaving me feeling relieved and guilty all at once.
I say goodnight to them, then head upstairs.
After one last check on Libby, I slip into my bedroom and close the door, careful not to make too much noise. Having a full house leaves an odd sense of contentment rolling around inside me.
Even though I’m tired, sleep doesn’t seem likely. Restless, my gaze bounces around my room, finally landing on the pile of clean laundry in the corner. It’s been sitting there waiting for me to put it away for longer than I want to think about.
I sort through the clothes quickly—why didn’t I just do this sooner? At my dresser, I stop and stare at the top drawer. I told Dex I wanted him to have it. To keep his things here so he’d be more comfortable when he stays over. Right before…right before…
I can’t.
In the next drawer, I pull out a few sweaters to refold. An envelope flops out from between the tangled wool and lands on the floor.
What the hell? Why am I storing mail in my sweater drawer?
I bend down to pick it up and recoil as if I’d captured a scorpion in my hand.
The letter from the man who killed my parents. I’d kept it in case Libby wants to read it one day. Why didn’t I choose a better spot? Like a box I could’ve taped shut. Somewhere safer where it couldn’t jump out and kick me in the crotch with painful memories when I’m already feeling lower than low.
I scan the single page again, focusing on the final paragraph.
If you find it in your heart to visit me, I would like to share the truth of that night as well as tell you in person how sorry I am for the hurt and pain I’ve caused your family. This isn’t a plea for help or forgiveness. I am where I belong and I will never leave here alive. I hope that gives you some peace.
