Find Me (Corrupted Hearts Book 3)

by Tiffany Snow

  Mia didn’t give me a chance to reply. She rose and put the first-aid kit away, then headed up to her room.

  I got unsteadily to my feet and walked to the powder room. Flicking on the light switch, I examined my reflection. I had been cut. More than I’d thought. Mia had done a nice job patching me up, but I looked as ragged on the outside as I felt on the inside. I tugged out my ponytail and ran my fingers through my hair with a sigh. Clark still had my glasses.

  The house was quiet and still. I turned off the lights downstairs and ascended to the second floor. The ring was burning a hole in my jeans pocket. I reached in and retrieved it, sliding it back onto my finger. The diamond glittered, even in the semidarkness.

  A glance in my office showed that Clark had made up the futon, but wasn’t in there. The light around the closed bathroom door gave away his location. I passed by and went into my bedroom, changing into my pajamas. After a brief hesitation, I left the ring on my finger. It was a good reminder. I loved Jackson, and Clark was my friend, not the other way around.

  I really wanted my glasses, but my reluctance to see Clark again was greater. So, I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up just so. The clock said bedtime was still seven minutes away, but I didn’t mind going to bed early.

  My phone buzzed. Jackson. With a start, I realized I’d completely forgotten to text him.

  “Hey,” I answered. “I’m so sorry I didn’t text.”

  “I was just about to come over there,” he said, irritation edging his tone. “I was worried about you. I just got home from work myself.”

  “Wow. Long day.”

  “Yes, and I want to revisit what we discussed this morning. I’d like to meet your family. Your father and brothers.”

  “Why?” A valid question. Jackson was my first boyfriend. I’d told no one but my grandma in Florida about him. My father and older brothers didn’t think I even had a social life, much less a boyfriend.

  “China, we’ve been dating for months. In case you’ve forgotten, we’re engaged. It’s time.”

  Ouch. There it was. The engagement that I hadn’t actually agreed to. The huge elephant in the room. “You really want to go to Omaha?” I asked, avoiding the elephant. I’d grown up on a farm north of the city and close to the river. Not exactly a Happening Place.

  Jackson sighed. “We’re not going for a vacation. I want to meet your family, and I’m sure they’ll want to meet me.”

  My silence must’ve clued him in, because he said, “China . . . they do know about me, right?”

  “I’m sure Granny told them,” I hedged. “Or Mia.” Mia was sixteen. Gossip was as second nature to her as putting on makeup and curling her long, blond hair into perfectly tubed ringlets.

  “When was the last time you even spoke to your dad?”

  “I don’t know. A few weeks ago.” I shrugged. “We talk every now and then.” Which was true. Maybe three or four times a year. Enough to keep in touch. Not enough to be close. “He talks to my brothers more often.”

  “Oslo and . . . ?”

  “Bill. Named after Billings, Montana. Oslo is the oldest, Mia’s dad,” I explained. “Bill is the middle, and he’s eight years older than me.”

  “That’s a big age difference.”

  “Yeah. Mom and Dad thought they couldn’t have any more kids, even though Mom really wanted a girl.” My family made me anxious. I’d gotten used to not having to work so hard to find something to talk about with people. The only thing I had in common with my older brothers was blood.

  “China.” Jackson’s tone had me holding my breath. “I can’t help but feel that you’re acting as though you really don’t want me to meet your family.”

  The hurt in his voice was painful to hear. It made my heart ache. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt Jackson. I needed him, something I couldn’t have foreseen six months ago. I loved him. But I didn’t know if I was ready to spend my life with him. How did you know when it was The One? How did Jackson know I was his The One? Trying to put those feelings and doubts into words was the hard part. And the kiss with Clark tonight only made things more confusing.

  “I do want you to meet my family,” I said. “It’s just that . . . things with my dad and me have always been a little strained. Ever since my mom died.”

  “How did your mom die?” he asked. “You’ve never said.”

  I cleared my throat before I spoke. “Um, well, that’s because when she died . . . it was partly my fault.”

  “What are you talking about? You were eight years old. How could it have possibly been your fault?”

  “I was with her, in the car,” I explained. “It was snowing out and the roads were bad. She’d picked me up from a weekend camp at the University of Nebraska. They sometimes had stuff for brainy kids, and I’d insisted on going to this one.

  “Anyway, she’d picked me up and we were driving home Sunday night. A tractor trailer slid on the ice, and we slid into it. There was a huge pileup, and our car was smashed. People started helping each other, and I was little enough for them to get me through a window.” I paused. The memory of that day and those moments was something that I’d never forgotten. “But Mom . . . she was wedged too tightly. There was a fire and . . .” I stopped, unable to go on.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jackson murmured, his voice low and soothing in my ear. “I had no idea.”

  “It is what it is, and it’s certainly in the past,” I replied. “There was nothing the rescuers could do when they got there except put out the flames. Dad has never said anything about it being my fault, but it’s always been there between us. A giant chasm. And he’s right. If we hadn’t been on the road that night, Mom might still be alive.”

  “You can’t know that,” he argued. “And it wasn’t your fault. You were a child. Your mother was the adult. And accidents happen. It’s no one’s fault.”

  “Logically, I know that’s all true,” I said. “But emotions aren’t logical.” A huge understatement. Guilt gnawed at me, and part of me wanted to confess what had happened between Clark and me, but the other part didn’t. I didn’t want to hurt Jackson, or for him to know how awful a person it appeared I was at heart. He’d never understand.

  “Why don’t I come over?” Jackson said. “I miss you, and last night ended so terribly.”

  I was on the verge of agreeing—it would be so comforting for him to hold me at the moment—when I remembered. Clark was here.

  “No,” I blurted, then realized how that sounded. “I mean, I’m really tired and I’m already in bed. I’ll come over there tomorrow. How does that sound?”

  “Are you sure? It’s really no bother. I can just crawl in beside you and go to sleep with you.”

  That sounded really, really good, but I knew it was a Bad Idea. “No, it’s fine. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Okay, then,” he said. “Sleep well, pretty girl. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Good night.”

  “’Night.”

  I ended the call and set the phone back on my nightstand. As I set it down, I noticed my glasses were on the table, too. At some point while I’d been talking to Jackson, Clark had come in and left them for me. I wondered how much, if any, of my conversation he’d overheard.

  Morning came too bright and too early. I debated what to wear, finally settling on my I Survived Helm’s Deep T-shirt with my usual uniform of jeans and a long-sleeve shirt over it. I’d switched to cozy flannels for the winter months and was just brewing my coffee when my cell rang.

  “Morning, Granny,” I answered. My grandma and I always spoke on Saturdays, when I got to hear all about her latest misadventures in the retirement community in Florida where she lived.

  “Good morning, China-girl,” she said, her perky voice and southern lilt making me smile. Suddenly I felt a thousand times better. This was normal, this was routine, this was my Granny. “You’ll never guess what happened to me last night.”

  I hesitated. It could be anything from
being arrested for operating an underground poker game to TPing her neighbor Helen’s condo (Granny viewed Helen as a stick-in-the-mud fuddy-duddy ever since it had come out that she’d been the one to report Granny’s poker game to the cops).

  “Probably not,” I answered. “What happened?”

  “Well, Harvey had come round to take me to dinner—that man is such a romantic, I have to say—and he’d somehow found an old Ford Model T! He thought it was somethin’ else, but I have to tell you, they didn’t make them with air-conditioning, and I wasn’t about to sweat my way through this Florida heat. I’d put on my fake lashes and pantyhose! And honey, you know what wearing pantyhose in the heat will do to you.”

  I didn’t, since I’d never worn any kind of nylons before, but I made agreeing noises as though I knew exactly what she was talking about.

  “Well, anyway, we took my car to dinner instead, and can you believe it? He proposed!” She laughed in delight. “Gracious, I didn’t think I’d ever get one of those again.”

  I’d stopped pouring my coffee. “Wow, Granny! That-that’s wonderful. Congratulations.”

  “Oh, China-girl, I didn’t say yes,” she chortled. “Heavens to Betsy, I’ve had enough of marriage since your grandpa passed. I’m not about to give up my freedom to be someone’s maid and cook again, no sirree.”

  “So you told him no?” I couldn’t fathom how it could be socially acceptable for someone to say no to a marriage proposal. “How?”

  “Why, I simply told him how flattered I was, and how special he was to me, but that marriage wasn’t something I wanted. I must say, he took it well. He was a bit crestfallen, but then we danced for a while and he perked right up. Of course, it also helped that I still let him come inside for a nightcap afterward.”

  “That’s great,” I interrupted before she could go further into explaining what she meant by “nightcap.” I got the gist.

  “What’s going on with you?” she asked. “How’s my boy Jackson doing?”

  Now was the time, if I was going to start telling my family. “Um, well, it sounds like we had very similar experiences.” I took a deep breath. “Jackson proposed on Valentine’s Day.”

  I yanked my earbuds out and winced at the shriek that followed.

  “That’s fantastic! I knew he was special. Have you set a date?”

  I got the last part of that when I tentatively put my earbuds back in. “Um, well, actually . . . I’m not sure I want to get married.”

  Granny was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was serious. “Talk to me,” she said. “Do you not want to get married? Or do you not want to marry Jackson?”

  “It’s just that . . . how do you know?” I asked. “How can either of us be sure that we’re . . .” I searched for the right term. “. . . marriage material? What if he just really wants to get married, and any compatible woman will do? How do I know that he loves me more than he’ll ever love anyone else? How do I know the same about him?”

  “Well, honey, those are all really good questions, and I don’t think any bride-to-be hasn’t asked herself the same thing.”

  “You knew you didn’t want to get married again,” I said. “I should know with as much certainty if I do want to get married, right?”

  “China-girl, nothing in life is a hundred percent certain, not when it comes to love. That’s the point. Some things have to be taken on faith and trust and hope. You trust that Jackson loves you and have faith that you’re both making the right decision. Then you hope that the future is kind.”

  The idea of trusting the rest of my life and happiness on ephemeral things such as faith, hope, and love made me sit in the nearest chair and put my head between my knees.

  “You all right?” Granny asked when I didn’t reply.

  “Yeah,” I said, breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. “Just practicing my coping techniques.”

  She chuckled.

  “But it’s not just that,” I said, lowering my voice. I glanced toward the stairs, but it was still all quiet upstairs. Mia was getting her Saturday-morning beauty rest, and I hadn’t heard a peep from Clark. “There’s . . . there might be . . . another man.” I flinched even as I said the words.

  “Oh my! Hold on, honey, I need to put some whiskey in my coffee for this.” I waited for a few moments, then she returned. “Okay, go on ahead. Spill it.”

  I told her, as succinctly as I could, about Clark and how he’d kissed me a few months ago when he’d gone away, but how he was back now and then he’d kissed me again last night and said other things before that . . . suggestive things that even I had picked up on as sexual innuendoes.

  “And now I’ve cheated on Jackson, and I don’t know how to tell him,” I said. “He’s going to hate me.”

  “First of all,” Granny said, “he’s not going to hate you. Don’t be silly. Second, there’s no need to tell him a thing. If there’s one thing I know about men, it’s that what they don’t know, won’t hurt ’em. Unless you’re plannin’ on dumping Jackson and taking up with this Clark. Are you?”

  “No, of course not. It was just a weird one-time . . . two-time . . . thing.”

  “Then I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said. “It sounds like this Clark fella has a thing for you, but he’s never made a move before now, and now . . . you’re taken. Some men find that easier. Takes them off the hook, so to speak. They don’t have to pony up and commit to a woman, which is what Jackson’s doing. I think you should decide what you want with Jackson, without letting the idea of Clark influence you.”

  That was really good advice. And so much easier said than done, I found once I’d hung up. I’d never been so confused before. It felt strange, not to know my way forward. I’d always had my future mapped out and made decisions logically and quickly. But logic wasn’t playing much of a part here, because as much as I should logically want to marry Jackson—and I did—I still couldn’t stop thinking about Clark and that kiss last night.

  6

  I left a note on the kitchen table for Mia—who’d likely sleep until noon—that I was going to Jackson’s, then I crept out of the house. I shouldn’t have bothered. Clark’s motorcycle was gone.

  That made me stop for a second. Had he gone to Omaha to see the remaining member of his old team? He hadn’t left me a message or a text. Automatically, I reached for my phone, then stopped myself. If he wanted me to know where he was, he would’ve told me. For all I knew, he wasn’t coming back at all.

  Which would probably be a good thing. Maybe not for my career, but certainly for my peace of mind.

  Lance let me into Jackson’s house, the foyer of which was larger than the entire first floor of my place. The chandelier hanging above us was undergoing a cleaning, and I could tell by Lance’s grimace and curt greeting that he was cranky. Frankly, if I had to clean that thing, I’d be cranky, too.

  “Where’s Jackson?” I asked.

  He motioned down toward the east wing. “His office.” Then he began climbing the huge ladder he’d obviously abandoned to answer the front door. The height was dizzying and I couldn’t watch.

  Jackson was indeed in his office, talking on the phone. I poked my head in, and he smiled, motioning me inside. I listened with half an ear to his conversation as I wandered around the room. I had chair envy of the ergonomic state-of-the-art throne that he sat in to work. Right now, he sat in a normal chair behind a normal desk. But on a raised dais was the chair where he coded. It held screens with one arched metal arm while the keyboard was on another, and could recline at various degrees, all while holding the workstation safely. It was awesome . . . and incredibly expensive.

  I had just decided to climb up into the chair when he ended his call.

  “Good morning,” he said, coming around from behind the desk to kiss me. “How’d—” He stopped, taking my chin in his hand. “What the hell happened to you?”

  I had my excuse all ready. “Um, yeah. Cat.”

  “Cat?”
>
  “Yeah. Mia brought her friend’s cat over, and it didn’t like me. Scratched my cheek all up.”

  Jackson eyed me, frowning. He opened his mouth to speak.

  There was a television mounted on the wall, and it caught my eye. It was always tuned to a cable news channel and muted, but what was on the screen now made my blood freeze.

  “Oh no,” I breathed, the imaginary cat forgotten.

  Jackson dropped his hand and turned to see what I was staring at so fixedly.

  Clark’s service photograph was on the news. The caption said “Manhunt Under Way.”

  Jackson reached for the remote and turned up the sound.

  “. . . search for what the Secret Service and FBI are calling ‘a person of interest’ in the assassination attempt on President Kirk,” the anchor was saying. “Clark Slattery is an Army veteran and should be considered armed and dangerous. Authorities are asking people not to intervene themselves, but to call this number, should they spot him. Sources tell us that Slattery was last spotted in the Raleigh-Durham area of North Carolina.”

  Jackson turned to me. “Did you know about this?”

  I tore my gaze from the television. “I didn’t know they were going to do this,” I said. “I know they suspected him, but I didn’t believe them. Clark wouldn’t do that.”

  “Has he contacted you?”

  I hesitated, remembering my promise to Clark. “Why would you think he’d contact me?” My tried-and-true way of avoiding answering a question . . . ask another.

  “Clark strikes me as the kind of guy who wouldn’t hesitate to use what connections he has to get himself out of a jam.”

  Jackson’s wry comment hit a little too close to home. But I still wasn’t ready to break the promise I’d made. Clark’s life was on the line—not only from whoever was hunting him and the former members of his team, but from whatever the government would do to him if they got their hands on him.

  “They shut Vigilance down,” I said, not wanting to pursue a conversation about Clark.

  “What?”

  “Last night. This guy, special adviser to the president, came in with an armed team and shut us down.”