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And it’s here I have remained with no intention of rising. Well, that is until I hear hushed voices just outside our door.
Raising my weary head, I brush my tangled hair off my face as I turn my ear toward the doorway. The sunlight slipping through the lacy curtains indicates it’s daytime, but I have no idea what time it is.
Quinn is still sound asleep, breathing lightly, and I don’t want to wake him for fear that my jumpy nerves are just playing tricks on me, and the voices outside our door will soon disappear.
Unfortunately, they don’t.
And when I hear the unmistakable static over a walkie-talkie, I know it’s the cops.
I don’t fail to see the pattern when I wake before Quinn and make a mental note to never let him sleep in.
I also make a mental note to train my dog to be more alert because he’s still sound asleep.
“Quinn,” I whisper, lightly poking him in the chest as I’m wrapped in his arms in a vise-like grip.
But my whisper falls on deaf ears.
Quinn tightens his arms around me, drawing me closer against his warm chest. This has my arms being caught between us, and as Quinn begins snoring softly, and with my arms literally tied, I know I’ll have to utilize other methods to wake him.
His head is slanted upward, so I can’t subtly wake him up with a kiss.
But as the voices outside our door begin getting louder, I resort to desperate measures and bite him on his stubbled chin—hard.
“What the fu—!”
But I widen my eyes to imply something is wrong.
He thankfully reads my facial expression and nods, indicating he’s listening.
I gesture with my head toward the doorway. At that instant, the crackling over the radio sounds, and Quinn curses under his breath.
We arise in a synchronized manner, both reaching for our guns, which have taken up permanent residency on our bedside tables.
We start a slow crawl toward the voices, and Quinn nudges his head toward the bathroom, indicating for me to wait in there.
My response to his offensive suggestion is a light snicker, and I follow him as we silently tiptoe toward the window.
Quinn scoffs, shaking his head, obviously annoyed by my stubbornness.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this. Every day seems to be a vicious circle, and the thought of turning myself in crosses my mind briefly.
But as I hear the familiar voice of someone who shouldn’t be here, my thoughts of surrender are put on hold.
I need to know what the hell she’s doing here.
“Good morning, Mike,” says my mother’s chirpy voice.
As soon as Quinn hears her, he turns to me, eyes wide, mouthing, “What the fuck?”
I only shrug in response because I’m just as stumped as he. We both freeze, listening intently.
“Mornin’, Cynthia. Whatcha doing out so early?” the man, who I’m presuming is Mike, asks.
“Oh, I just had to take care of some business for Chandler,” she replies flippantly. The mere mention of his name has my teeth grinding in annoyance.
“Is he back for the holidays?” asks another male voice.
“I’m not too sure yet, Dean,” Cynthia replies.
