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Both my dad and Sean tested every limit I had. I’m still here. A survivor. An overcomer.
Speaking of Sean, I wonder if he’s tried to call me. It feels empowering, though, knowing my phone is shut off and tucked away in the side zipper of the suitcase. Sean can’t reach me. I don’t have to face his ugly texts or hear his cruel messages.
It’s not much, but it gives me enough relief that I’m able to fall asleep.
I wake to someone’s voice, jerking upright in a panic.
It takes me a moment to familiarize myself with my surroundings. Guest room at Jude’s haunted house. Right. Lovely.
The voice in question, though, isn’t Jude.
It’s an older woman.
“Knock-knock,” she says, slowly opening the door with one hand. “Jude said you’d want lunch in your room.”
The old woman with white hair and a friendly smile enters my room carrying a tray. Curiosity gets the best of me and I’m pleased to see a croissant sandwich, a pickle, some orange slices, and a piece of what looks like apple pie. There’s also a water carafe, a glass with ice, a coffee mug, and a stainless-steel gooseneck coffee pot.
“I’m Violet,” the woman says as she sets the tray down at the desk in the corner. “I cook for the fellas and make sure they’re taken care of.” Pride shines in her expression. It warms my heart.
“Fellas?”
“Not just Jude here. Wyatt. Jude’s grandfather. He’s wheelchair-bound but still a firecracker.”
My initial fear of Jude and this house fades into the background. At least there are witnesses here. Violet seems nice.
I slide off the bed, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, and make my way over to the food. “Wow, this looks great. Thank you.”
She beams with happiness. “The pie is Jude’s favorite. Let me know your favorite and I’ll make it for you.”
“You will?”
Her pleased expression falls. “Of course. You’re Jude’s guest.”
I snort at that summation. “Hardly a guest.”
“But you’re in the guest room…” She trails off with a frown.
“I work for Nathan. Therapist. Just helping out, is all. The name’s Tate. Tate Prince.”
Violet’s brows lift. “You’re going to help our Jude?”
“I’m going to try.”
She shocks me by shuffling my way and throwing her spindly arms around me. I haven’t been hugged in, well, forever. I hug my cat. That’s all the affection I get. Sudden emotion prickles at my eyes and a lump forms in my throat. I greedily hug this old woman back, inhaling her cinnamon and sugar scent.
“You’re a gift from God, Mr. Prince. Truly.”
I’m hardly a gift from God and Mr. Prince reminds me of Dad. Her words make me uncomfortable. I carefully extract myself from the much-needed hug.
“Please call me Tate. And I said I’d try. He’s a tough nut to crack.”
She nods. “The toughest. But he needs cracking. I’m afraid one day he’ll shut himself off from everyone. His mother would have hated seeing him deteriorate like this.” She takes hold of my hand, squeezing it in her weathered hands. “Don’t give up hope, sweet Tate. He needs someone strong to keep pushing—to not be afraid of the hatred he harbors for himself. You’ve made it further into Jude’s world than any outsider ever has. The man deep inside is worth finding and saving. I have faith you’re the one to do it.”
With those powerful words, she releases my hand and leaves me alone in my room. As I sit at the desk to eat my meal, I can’t help but wonder if she’s right.
Maybe I am the right person for this job.
She thinks I’m strong.
