It wasn’t big, not some sprawling mansion. It was more like one of those idyllic farmhouses she’d sometimes see in paintings, drawings, even old pictures. Some idyllic version of farm living that might not ever have been real except in people’s imaginations.
But here, she could imagine something like that being true. From the white siding to the green shutters, the deep front porch with its swing to the tire hanging from a tree out in front, it was perfect. Almost like a set for a movie.
“This is yours?” she asked, eyes widening. “Yours?”
“Why do you seem so surprised?” he asked with a smirk, cutting the engine and the lights, casting them into dark silence.
“It’s not where I would’ve expected somebody like you to live.”
“Where would you expect me to live?” He folded his impossibly large arms, a smirk playing over his mouth. “In some empty, soulless space? White walls? Barely any furniture? No food in the fridge?”
“Careful, you might start making me miss my apartment.” Because he had pretty much described it to a T, to the point where she almost cringed.
“Anyway, there probably isn’t much in the fridge,” he admitted. He opened his door, looking at her over his shoulder. “Come on. I’m not going to carry you inside.”
This had to be the most bizarre night of her life. She’d gone from almost making out with someone who was supposed to be the enemy to nearly dying in a fire to being accused of unthinkable things to having a device removed from her arm that she hadn’t known was there. And now here she was, about to walk into a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.
Only the dull, throbbing ache in her left arm was enough to tell her she was not dreaming. Otherwise, she would’ve pinched himself black and blue, convinced none of this could be real.
“Holy cow.” She couldn’t believe her eyes when Zane flipped on the lights. It was the most charming, the most adorable place she’d ever been in.
“My mom insisted on decorating,” he chuckled, shrugging. “I’ve learned how to pick my battles with her. She has a very strong personality.”
Aimee ran her hand over a plush armchair, admiring the oil lamp sitting on a small, polished table beside it. It was picture perfect, the entire thing. “I love it,” she smiled, a little shy.
“You do?” He smiled, too, and it struck her as being shy just like hers. “I didn’t think you would.”
“I do have a soul, you know,” she muttered, rolling her eyes before running her hand over a line of books stacked neatly on a shelf.
“That’s not what I mean. You don’t strike me as a girl who’d be at home in a farmhouse.”
“Is there indoor plumbing?”
“Of course.”
“Then I can make myself right at home,” she assured him. There was a cheerful rag rug on the floor in front of the fireplace, in front of which a pair of rocking chairs sat. It was almost sad, actually, the fact that one of those chairs was always empty. Unless Zane had female company in the house, there was nobody to rock with in front of the fire.
Just the thought of him having female company made her cheeks burn and not in embarrassment. She’d love to get her hands on the girl who thought she could make herself at home here. Nobody could appreciate this place the way she did from the very second she stepped foot inside. It was so pretty, so peaceful.
“You really like it?” he asked again like he didn’t believe it. There were a million other more important things going on in their lives at that very moment, but all he seemed to care about was whether she liked his house.
“I really, really do,” she grinned. The pillows on the sofa facing the fireplace were covered in lace, so fine and delicate. She almost didn’t want to touch it, afraid she would get dirty after so much time in the woods. “I never had anything this nice growing up. Sorry. You probably want to laugh at me.”
He stood near the stairs, a wide, sweeping staircase that cut through the center of the first floor, dividing the living room and dining room. The baluster was polished oak, gleaming. She could imagine wrapping Christmas lights and garland around it, hanging stockings on the hearth. Good Lord, what was happening to her?
“No, I don’t want to laugh at you,” he assured her with a gentle smile. “I’m flattered, honestly. Of course, the credit has to go to my mother. I don’t have the sort of taste she does.”
“She knows what she’s doing,” Aimee assured him with a soft laugh. “It’s like something out of a movie; it’s so perfect.”
“I’ll tell her you said so.”
They couldn’t go on like this forever. She hadn’t come to his house to take a tour or admire it, and she certainly hadn’t shown up there to fantasize about making that house her own one day. Decorating for Christmas. What a stupid fantasy. This sort of house wasn’t for somebody like her any more than this sort of life would be. Not for her.
Not for somebody who had done all the bad things she’d done.
No, it was better for her to live in that empty apartment, with its few pieces of furniture and the spare room with the boxes she never unpacked.
He clapped his hands together, sudden and sharp enough to make her jump. “Anyway, there are bedrooms upstairs, naturally. You can take either one; it doesn’t matter. There’s only an air mattress in the spare, but it’s really comfortable.”
“Thanks,” she whispered, looking down at that cheerful little rug.
“There should be clean towels in the linen closet, and I can give you something to wear. We were talking about pajamas earlier, weren’t we?”
“You mean a thousand years ago?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Yeah. It does seem like that, doesn’t it?”
“What are you so nervous about?” she asked, noting the tension in his voice, the way he held himself.
Instead of denying he was nervous, he shrugged, a little sheepish. “Honestly, this is unusual. I’m not used to having guests. I know that sounds ridiculous,” he added with a chuckle at himself. “I’m usually here alone.”
“In a house like this?”
“It didn’t come with a family,” he pointed out with a sour smile. “Honestly, I prefer it that way. The being alone part, I mean,” he was quick to add. “I’ve been a loner for a long time. The only people I generally spend any time with are the team. That’s it. I haven’t even seen my family in… God, I can’t remember.”
This was what she wanted. Not to go to bed, as tired as she was. Bone tired, weary, wrung dry like an old washcloth. She wanted to talk. It didn’t matter what they talked about so long as they were together and he was talking to her and listening to what she had to say.
She didn’t think she’d be able to fall asleep no matter how hard she tried, not after learning what she’d learned. Not after the nightmare of the past few hours.
She sat on the sofa then, brushing off the bottom of her jeans just in case she’d picked up any dirt from outside before settling down. Bending at the waist, she started to unlace her boots. “Why haven’t you seen your family?” she asked, her eyes on her work, trying to be casual so he didn’t think she was prying.
“Things are complicated. I, you know, wasn’t exactly the same when I got home. When we all did.”
Her fingers fumbled with the laces for a second, but she managed to cover. “Something bad happened to you over there, didn’t it? Because of them.”
“Yeah. Something bad happened. Because of them.”
“Well, just think. They’ve been screwing with both of us for all this time.” She slid out of her boots, flexing her toes, grateful for even that little bit of comfort. She then drew her feet up, tucking them under her. “So, what? Did you have a fight with them? Your family, I mean?”
It was clear this made him uncomfortable. He looked at the floor, his forehead increasing, his mouth set in a firm line. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she assured him, though her heart sank when she said it. She wanted to know more about him. Wh
o was this man? What made him the way he was? And what, exactly, had they done to him?
“No, it’s okay. We didn’t exactly have a fight. It’s just that… It’s not the same anymore. I wish I knew how to describe it. They’re both so cerebral.” He touched his forefinger to the side of his head. “Always talking about books and plays and music and philosophy, politics and history. I mean, they can talk until they’re blue in the face, both of them, like walking databases. They know something about everything, I swear to God. And I used to envy that—in a way, I still do.”
He sat down with a sigh, arranging himself in the armchair she’d admired earlier. It was almost funny, this big, hulking man sitting next to an oil lamp sitting on top of a crocheted doily which might’ve been a little too much for a grown man living alone.
Knowing what she knew about him, he looked completely out of place. She was starting to suspect there was a lot more underneath the surface than she’d given him credit for at first.
“The first real, meaningful time I spent with them after coming home was around Thanksgiving,” he explained, sighing deeply. He shook his head. “I realized, sitting there at the table with the two of them going back and forth about one thing or another, that was all life was to them. They could talk about politics; they could talk about war. Neither of them really knew about it. They could quote statistics; they could tell you where battles were currently being waged. They knew all the important names, the important locations, all of it, but they didn’t actually know about it. I realized it was almost like entertainment for them, like a hobby, a way to pass the time. Talking about situations that affected people’s lives but always holding themselves at a distance.”
He looked around again, a fond smile tipping his mouth upward at the corners. “She did this for me while I was away. All of it. I didn’t get a single moment’s input.”
“You could’ve changed it. You still can.”
He seemed to consider this for a second before shaking his head. “No, because it’s like her. It’s like having something of her with me.”
She sat back, eyes narrowing as she studied him. “No. You’re not telling me the whole truth.”
His brows drew together. “What? That’s a pretty bold statement, considering you don’t know me.”
“I know enough. And remember, I’ve been trained to tell when a person is telling the truth and when they’re lying. You’re not completely lying—what you told me is true. But it’s not the entire answer. You’re holding back. Let me guess,” she offered, putting together what she already knew about him, what she knew about herself. “The real reason you haven’t seen them is because you’re afraid of drawing attention to them. You don’t want to drag them into this whole nightmare situation you’ve been in ever since you crossed paths with this group of people. It would be too risky for them, too risky for you—since they probably know where your parents live, since they probably have access to your military record. The address would’ve been there, I guess, or at least their names. Right?”
He hated how right she was; she knew it right off the bat. He scowled, almost jumping out of the chair. “Zane,” she whispered, her heart sinking. “Don’t you see? I know exactly what that feels like. I mean, I would if I still had a mother, if I ever had a father. I would want to keep them out of this, too. Brothers and sisters, my old friends. I wouldn’t want any of them to know about this. We’ve already seen what these evil bastards are capable of. Why would we want to subject anyone we care about to this sort of life?”
His shoulders lowered. His breathing slowed. “Yeah,” he admitted. “That’s it. I’m supposed to be the one who knows how to read you.”
“What’s that mean?” she asked.
“Never mind.” He glanced up the stairs. “I’m exhausted. It might be better for us to get some sleep before we start blabbing about things we really don’t feel like sharing.”
That was the thing. There was nothing she didn’t feel like sharing with him just then. She would’ve sat up all night, well into the morning, so long as it meant she didn’t have to be alone. All her life, she’d been alone—after a while, she’d come to like it. To crave it.
Now? She’d do anything to avoid it.
“Um, okay,” she murmured anyway. No sense making him think she was a problem. Not that he didn’t already feel that way, but there was no reason to emphasize it. “I’ll take whatever room you’re not taking, I guess.”
“You can have my room. I’ll sleep in the spare.”
“You’re sure? It’s your room.”
“Honestly? I can’t tell you the last time I slept there,” he admitted with a shrug. “We tend to go where we need to go and sleep when and where we can.”
“Which is more reason why you should have your bed,” she pointed out, feeling a little smug even if it meant talking him out of letting her sleep in an actual bed.
“Just go,” he snickered, turning his back to her so he could set the alarm. “And don’t worry. I’m not, like, flashy about it, but this house is fully armed. Not a window or a door can be opened when the alarm is set without an ear-splitting shriek filling the place.”
“Oh, super,” she groaned, though she appreciated it. So long as they knew it if and when someone tried to break in.
They couldn’t know about this place.
Could they?
Chapter Twenty-Three
“This is nice,” she murmured, running her hand over the quilt spread out across the bed. “She really did think of everything, didn’t she?”
He nodded, leaning against the doorframe and watching as she admired the room. It was almost cute how charmed she seemed.
And her reaction charmed him, no doubt about it. “Yeah, she left no stone unturned. I think this is the sort of house she wanted, but work was in the city. Decorating a farmhouse out in North Jersey was just what the doctor ordered, I think. She could live vicariously.”
Aimee smiled, but that smile faded quickly. “I’m sorry for her,” she whispered, eyes downcast. “It’s not anybody’s fault.”
“Not true,” he corrected, bitter. “It’s their fault. They did this. And you’re right, there’s a reason why I haven’t contacted my family in years. Why I’ve told them to stay away from here. It’s better for them to think I’m a mean bastard, that I’ve shut them out of my life. This way there’s less of a chance of them wandering onto my property and somehow getting themselves in trouble they couldn’t possibly have imagined.”
“You don’t think they would have, do you?” She leaned over the nightstand to turn on the lamp, and the cut-glass shade sent prisms of light dancing over the walls and ceiling.
He wished she didn’t look so beautiful in that light. He could barely think straight with her looking the way she did. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past them. It’s safer this way. Safer for my family to think I’ve dropped off the face of the earth, that they would get nothing but a fight from me if they showed up. I’m willing to be the bad guy if it means protecting them.”
She sat down with a sigh, sinking into the soft mattress. “I’m sorry, but that makes me so sad for you. Don’t get me wrong,” she was quick to add, waving her hand. “There’s a difference between feeling sad for somebody and, like, pitying them. I don’t pity you. I’m just sad for you.”
She drew in a hitching gasp, looking to the floor. “And I’m sorry for ever doing what they told me to do. How could I have been so blind?”
This wasn’t so easy to talk about. “You just didn’t know,” he ventured, speaking slowly, feeling his way through this like stepping carefully through a minefield.
“It was one thing to do that sort of work when I was on a tour,” she mused, “but not over here. These were civilians. All of them. I’m too trusting; that has to be it. I trusted them because they seemed… Legit, like they were the good guys, like they were honorable—for lack of a better word,” she snickered, shaking her head.
“They probably knew that
about you,” he reasoned. “That you’re the type of girl who would trust them and that you would want to do a good job. They could probably look at your record, read write-ups from your COs, and know you were the sort of person who was able to disengage yourself from the job you were on. You’re not the type who breaks down weeping after taking out a target because you would always put the value of the big picture first. In this case, the big picture was protecting the good guys by eliminating the supposed bad guys.”
“In a nutshell,” she confirmed. “Yes, they really had my number from the beginning. It’s also obvious now. I want to go back in time and slap myself silly for ever believing anything they told me.”
“I have to ask. Did you ever meet any of them in person? A representative, anyone?”
She nodded. “Just the one time. Way back in the beginning. A man in a dark suit. He gave me a business card. I lost it years ago. He seemed nice, and it was clear he was either active or ex-military—the way he carried himself, his precision. If anything, that only added to the legitimacy of the whole thing. I believed in him. I believed he was one of the good guys. He reminded me a lot of the men I served under.”
Yes, they really had her number from the beginning. They knew she would bow down before a superior officer, that her sense of duty and obligation and even honor would push her to successfully complete any mission they sent her on. Those sick, conniving bastards.
“I wonder how many other people they’re using right now?” she breathed, her chin quivering. She folded her hands in her lap, squeezing her fingers together.
“Hey. Hold on.”
“And that guy. The guy who set the fires.” She was breathing faster now, starting to lose control as the reality of what had just taken place sink in. “Hawk killed him, didn’t he? He left him somewhere, and he brought the truck back. Right?”
He let out a long sigh, wishing they didn’t have to go into this just then. Not when he wanted to sleep—when she clearly needed it, as on-edge as she was. “I’m not going to insult your intelligence. Yes, I imagine that’s what he did. We couldn’t have him alive, Aimee. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
Wolf Shield Investigations: Boxset Page 90