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JACOB
Melody stands still while we clean all traces of us from the house. We remove the cameras Greyson and Steele planted earlier today, before they met us at the arena.
At the end of the day, Henry Armstrong is a predictable asshole.
He was always going to try and lure Melody away.
He was always going to stage some sort of event at her old house.
In a way, it was almost too poetic for him to resist. But after we wipe down every surface Melody touched, retracing her path through the house, and all that’s left to do is leave, Melody doesn’t move.
She doesn’t have a big reaction. Her eyes aren’t filled with tears, her lips aren’t tipped down. If anything, she seems confused about what we’re doing.
I take her hand, and we leave that house behind.
There’s still the matter of the tracker. We need to get it out, although Armstrong isn’t a threat to her anymore. I don’t like the thought of it under her skin.
“We’re staying at the hockey house,” Greyson says. “The girls are already there. Figured you two might want some privacy.”
Melody blushes.
I grin.
“Thanks, man.”
I didn’t want to tell her, but there’s blood in her hair. Instead of mentioning it, I simply guide her into my home and lock the door behind us.
“About time,” a woman says.
Melody freezes.
I do, too, for a split second. Then I locate the woman in the center of my living room and quickly tuck Melody behind me.
She’s older. Light-brown hair threaded through with silver and gray, fine wrinkles in the corners of her eyes. She might be in her sixties. She’s slender, petite. Her clothes are perfectly fitted, and she just seems expensive. I’ve been around enoughalmost-richpeople to know when they’re trying too hard. And she’s on the cusp.
She’s got a cell phone in one hand and a gun in the other, but I have no idea who she is.
Judging from Melody’s sudden rapid breathing, I have a feeling I should.
Why didn’t I study Melody’s family history with photos?
“Mom,” she says on an exhale.
Wait. “She’s dead,” I say under my breath. “Remember?”
“Well, clearly not,” Melody whispers back.
“I can hear you,” the woman says. She points to the couch. “You should sit.”
Melody steps out from behind me. I follow closely, unwilling to give up any space. We perch on the couch, and her mother takes the armchair closest to me.
“Jessica Cameron,” her mother introduces.
“Jacob Rhodes.”
My attention is split between the gun resting on her thigh and her face.
“The famous hockey player,” she supplies. It doesn’t sound exactly nice coming out of her mouth. More like condemnation.
