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But until I know who is sending her these letters, I’m going to suspect everyone.
Paranoia, as it turns out, is a bitch.
8
SLOAN
When I get home from Beck’s practice, there’s an envelope on my bed.
It’s mocking me. The curve of the flap looks like a leering grin. A Cheshire cat smile.
I stand at the threshold for a minute and look at it like it might leap out at me if I wander too close. Even from here, I can see the edge of a black rose petal tucked under the flap and my name printed neatly across the back.
Sloan Reeves.
It’s not fair that something so innocuous can make me shiver and sweat like this. I’ve got cold perspiration beading up all over me, all down my spine. It’s just a piece of paper, just my own name, but it means someone has been in the house. In my room.
I lunge forward to pick up the black rose letter between two fingers, shove it into a drawer on the bedside table, and then sprint out of the room. I can sleep in one of Beck’s T-shirts. I don’t need to go back into my room tonight.
I burst into his room. The door slams behind me and I mutter an apology for the noise, but Beck doesn’t even look up from the screen on his laptop. He’s sitting up in bed, the laptop high on his thighs as he types something in and then smiles at the screen.
He turns the screen so I can see it andoh, my heart. He’s looking at baby cribs. The fear drains from me. I should tell him about the letter, but he’s looking at baby cribs and I don’t want to ruin this moment with such darkness.
I’m going to wait until tomorrow to show it to him. For tonight, I want this, what we have right now: him looking at baby things and me watching him do it.
It makes me happy. After everything we’ve been through, I need a few minutes of undisturbed happy. I need him.
“Do you like this one?” he asks as I curl up under his waiting arm. He shows me a picture of a dark mahogany crib, with a rich, lustrous finish and giraffes carved into the posts. “Or if she’s a girl, then this one.” He turns the screen back his way and clicks onto another tab.
I don’t want to read into it, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more endearing. I don’t even mind when he puts the laptop on the table and cradles me against him. I like the way our bodies fit together. My head on his shoulder. His hands clasped just over my hip. His cheek resting on the top of my head.
This is how I’m meant to be. With him.
If only I could let that happen.
By morning, I’m in a state of unease. I shouldn’t have hidden the letter from him. I should have shown it to him right away.
And I don’t have time to show it to him now because he’s asleep and I don’t want to wake him because he stayed up late online shopping while I slept beside him.
Now, I’m on my way to meet Cassie and Monroe at the restaurant. I close the front door silently behind me—but when I turn around to face the driveway, I have to clap a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
“Miss Reeves.” One of Beck’s new security guys is smiling at me. He’s wearing a skin-tight navy polo with the security company’s logo on it, a snarling bulldog. He’s shiny-bald and alarmingly muscular and he looks like smiling pains him. “Mr. Daniels has expressed that no one should come in or out without his letting us know beforehand.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sure, if you speak with Mr. Daniels, he’ll call down and let us know what security you’ll require off-grounds and we can make those accommodations.” The fact that I can see the gun holster on his belt isn’t the deterrent he might think. If he shoots me, he doesn't get paid. That much is certain, but I’m not looking forward to being tackled to the ground as I try to make my escape, either.
But this is the second time in as many days that I feel like I’m being held hostage.
“Yeah, why don’t I fucking go speak to Mr. Daniels? I’m sure, by the time I get up the stairs, I’m going to have plenty to fucking say.”
I march back inside, every footstep landing hard enough to rattle the windowpanes.
“Beckett Daniels, you’d better wake your ass up because I would hate to kick your ass in your sleep!” I call out as I storm up the stairs. By the time I get to his room and fling the door open, he’s up and in the bathroom.
I shove the door open to find him taking a leak. “Fucking hell, Sloan. What’s the problem?”
“I was just informed that I’m on lockdown.”
