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“I’m going to miss you too. But it won’t be forever. Just until I find myself, or forgive myself, or whatever shit I’m supposed to be doing over there.”
When I get upset I get this burning, aching lump in my throat like a damn marble made of acid. But no tears. Never tears. I haven’t been able to cry since Brett got knocked down by a speeding driver. Not even when Dad—
“Well, do it fast.” Casey sniffs. “I need you here, Ro. It’s been you and me since we were five. From sandbox to casket, remember?”
A lopsided grin stretches across my lips as I pull her in for another hug.
“Yeah, I know. No one else has been there for me like you. You’re the bestest friend a girl could ask for.”
She clutches me tighter. “No, Ro. That’s you. You’re the bestest friend. I’m going to call and text you every day.”
“Okay.” The burning lump prevents me from saying much else.
I pull away and lift the carefully wrapped package from the top of my drawers, setting it down on my pillow and smoothing over the cloud paper with one hand. Then I rest the note atop.
I love how happy he was the day we took this. I’m sorry about the frame. I love you. —Rose.
“She’ll appreciate it,” Casey says, her eyes resting on the wrapped-up replacement frame. She went shopping with me this week to find one the right size for the one I broke.
If only everything that needs fixing could be done with a trip to the store.
She reaches over and grabs my hand. I squeeze my eyes shut until Mom calls up the stairs.
Time to go and find myself.
Whatever the fuck that means.
Chapter 3
Rose
Iscanthedepressing,gray parking lot.
One Atlantic Airways flight, two trains, and more hours than I care to think about, spent squeezing my five-foot ten frame into seats, with legroom designed for some miniature being—definitely not an actual human—and I am aching. And cranky.
The sky chooses this moment to welcome me on my first visit to England in style—with a downpour of freezing rain. Cursing, I pull my suitcase along the front of the countryside train station. There isn’t even a dry, indoor seating area. I have officially fallen off the grid in the middle of nowhere.
Leaning against the wall, I wrap my arms around myself. I’m in the right place. I just have to wait.
Ten minutes pass, and as the rain stops, a sleek, silver Range Rover pulls into the small parking lot and slows to a stop alongside me. The electric window rolls down, and a guy leans over from the driver’s side.
“Rose?”
I peer into the car and inhale the leather interior.
“Dax Silver?”
His green eyes sparkle in amusement.
“Not even close.”
He jumps out the car and heads around the hood, giving me time to assess him. He must be in his thirties. Wavy brown hair, a broad frame indicating he works out, and he smells incredible.
He holds out a hand to take my bag, and I instinctively pull it toward me. The man I’ve come to work for is called Dax Silver. This guy may be handsome, but he isn’t who I was expecting. And serial killers can be good-looking, too.
He bites his lip, then tilts his hand in greeting.
“Logan. I work with Dax.”
