Right. He was right. I’d tried telling myself that for weeks. You’re alive, Sydney. You’re still here, breathing. He could’ve killed you, but he didn’t. You’ve been given a chance, so don’t squander it. You have an opportunity to find happiness again. It could be so much worse.
“Right,” I said, swallowing hard. “You’re still . . . alive.”
“Was that insensitive?” he asked. “I’m sorry, I—”
“No,” I said, knowing that he hadn’t meant to remind me of what I’d lost. “It’s okay.”
“So I was asking about Theo,” he said, eager to change the subject. We both started walking again. “Has he shown you around?”
“No. Gary just left.”
“Your dad’s assistant, right? The guy who was here this morning.”
“Assistant?”
“Theo mentioned your father’s assistant was escorting you into town, to make sure you made it safely. That was him?”
I did my best to avoid a direct response, making some kind of noncommittal sound. The lies were starting already, and I wanted to shy away from any kind of conversation that would lead to continued dishonesty.
Back in the foyer with the final two cans of paint, I turned in a full circle, wondering where I’d find Theo. If nothing else, I could rely on him to help me settle in.
“Kitchen?” I asked.
“Right through there.” Chris nodded in the direction where Theo and Gary had spent their morning conversing in hushed voices. The dining room was off the back of the common room, separated only by the couch. A small door off the back wall was where he pointed, so I nodded and headed that way. “Sydney, I can give you the tour, so you know where everything is.”
“Thanks, but . . . I’m fine.”
I pushed through the kitchen door to find Theo seated at a two-person table in the back, nursing a mug of coffee.
“Little Bird,” he said, looking up. I hardened my stare at his introduction. His eyes beamed with affection, and while I didn’t understand the reason for the nickname he’d dubbed me, I didn’t question it. Theo struck me as the kind of guy who had a reason for everything he did, regardless of how it was received. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m exhausted,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Can we—”
“You want to settle in. Yes, absolutely. Chris is back from town?”
“Yes.”
“I put your bag in your room. Let’s see if he has everything else ready for you.”
I followed him out of the kitchen, watching as he turned himself sideways, ducking through the doorway. The giant of a man hit every creaky floorboard through the dining and common rooms, and we found Chris right where I left him—sorting through paint supplies in the corner of the foyer.
“Boss?”
“Yeah?” Chris said, turning to us.
“As promised,” Theo said. “Formal introductions. This sweet gal here is my niece, Sydney. And Little Bird, this is Christopher Ralston. He’s letting you crash here while you’re in town. He’s a good kid; you’re gonna love him.”
“Should I call you Christopher?” I asked.
“Chris is fine,” he said.
“You got a sec to show Sydney around, help her get settled into her room?” Theo asked.
Chris looked between us for a moment, and then his gaze fell to me. His brow pinched, as if to question why I hadn’t taken him up on his original offer to show me around.
“Yeah, absolutely,” he said, digging back into his pocket. He retrieved a key for the second time that morning and extended it to me. “You’ll want this.”
No, I don’t want it. I want to go home.
He was remembering those words I’d said to him that morning; I could see it in his stare.
When I didn’t take the key, Theo reached forward and grabbed it, passing it to me.
“Your room is back this way.” Chris started toward a door off the back of the foyer wall.
“You got it from here?” Theo asked, taking a step away to hint he wouldn’t be hanging around for the tour.
“Wait. Seriously? You’re not staying?” I asked, clutching the key tighter in my hand, only to grip onto something. How could he be so certain I was safe if he kept disappearing? How could I?
“I’ll be in the kitchen. You’re in good hands, Little Bird,” he said. “Besides, the two of you live under the same roof now. You might as well get used to each other.”
Giving my shoulder a squeeze, Theo turned out, making his way back to the kitchen. I stood defeated. I wanted to believe that Theo cared about my safety and protection, but he’d done little to prove that was true.
I was on my own now; I had to learn to accept that.
“Okay, right through here,” Chris said. He turned the knob and pushed the private entrance door, giving it an unusually hard shove so that it would open fully.
“It jams sometimes,” he said, turning back. “I’ll fix that. In the meantime, you’re welcome to keep it open since there’s no one coming or going.”
The door opened up to a small hallway. There were only two rooms—the first room off to the right, and the second to the left.
“Your room,” he said, moving in from behind me to open it. Startled by his sudden closeness, reflex drew me backward and I tripped over my feet, knocking straight into him. His arms fell around my waist, catching me before I could fall.
“Careful, there,” he said, helping me back to my feet.
I stood straight and pushed my hair out of my face.
“Thank you.”
On any normal day, I could barely make it through a morning without stumbling over my feet, tripping over thin air, or falling flat on my face. And most of the time I could credit my father or his crazy antics for those graceless moments, but this time I could only chalk it up to clumsiness. Dad wasn’t here to throw a banana peel on the ground or tape clear plastic wrap across an open door. This time, I fell on my own, and he wasn’t here to catch me. Or laugh . . . because most of the time that’s the response I got—him laughing at my expense.
I missed his laugh . . .
“You’ll find that I, too, am quite graceful,” I said, hoping to mask my humiliation.
“Hey, at least we’re here to look out for each other, right?”
“Yeah,” I nodded, wondering if he’d meant that. Would he really look out me?
I stepped aside, and Chris leaned forward again to push the bedroom door open.
“I know it isn’t much,” he said, stepping into the room. “But we’ll make do.”
“This is my room?”
It almost seemed unreal to have so much space; it was bigger than the motel room I’d shared with Gary over the last week and a half, and it was far more space than I’d need for such a temporary stay in Morgantown.
“All yours,” he said. “Everything beyond the foyer is the owner’s quarter. This is where you’ll find the most privacy when you need it.”
“And you?” I asked. “Theo said you live here, too?”
“Yes, and unfortunately that means you’ll never be completely alone, but I promise not to bother you if I can help it. I’m always here. Right across the hall. The attic apartment is empty. All of the guest rooms are on the second level. It never stays quiet for long. There’s always someone around.”
Assured by the promise that I would at least have someone nearby at all times, I looked around my new room. The comfort of a queen-sized bed beckoned me, freshly made with white linens and a heavy quilt. It looked so warm, and I hadn’t slept in days. The thought of a nap tempted me to rip back the covers, slide beneath them, and sleep until my body rejected the rest.
“It’s plain, I know, but nothing’s permanent,” Chris said. “You can do anything you want to it—paint it, hang some pictures, make it your own. We can go into town, go shopping as soon as you’re up to it.”
“No,” I said. “It’s . . . it’s fine. I don’t require much.”
It didn’t seem necessary
to add that I didn’t want to waste time or money decorating the space. As far as I was concerned, this place—Morgantown, the B&B, this bedroom—they were all temporary. I wouldn’t settle in and start treating any of it like home. Because back home, my real home, there were dozens of uniformed men and women doing their jobs, investigating and searching, working tirelessly to find my dad’s murderer and put him behind bars. Once that happened, once the danger was gone, I could leave and walk freely again. I could return to the place I loved. This was short term. I had to treat it that way.
“Closet’s over there,” Chris said, and then he walked to the back of the room. “And this is your bathroom. There are plenty of clean towels and washcloths in there, so you’re good to go. It looks like Theo brought your bag in this morning.” He nodded to the foot of the bed. “So I’ll leave you, and if there’s anything you need, give me a yell.”
“Thank you.”
Back at the door, Chris turned. “I can’t imagine how scary this is for you, Sydney, and I’m sorry you’re not where you want to be. But . . . I think, if you give it a chance, you’ll find that you like it here. Or, at least, I hope you do.”
“Yeah,” I said, letting my eyes trace the features of the room again. “Me too.”
He disappeared, shutting the door behind him. I lifted my bag up off the floor and pulled an outfit out—the one I’d worn on my last day in Ohio, before Gary swept me up, tossed me in a van, and sped us down the road.
I carried it into the bathroom and set it aside on the sink.
Looking up to the mirror, I stared at my eyes, noticing how red they’d grown. It was restlessness, countless nights without decent sleep. Staring hard, I read those dark circles and puffy eyes for exactly what they were—stress.
I watched myself, trying to remember the last time I’d looked at my reflection and saw the girl I was deep down inside—the happy girl, the one who was carefree, full of smiles, and always at the center of a world she loved.
It hadn’t been that long ago, only a few weeks since I’d worn my last smile. Our impromptu Thanksgiving. It was probably about the time I sat down with my father to enjoy our feast that Saturday night.
“No,” I whispered, watching a tear stream down my cheek. “It was after that.”
Tainted as the memory was, there was still laughter in the park, I had to admit that much.
***
Saturday, November 21
“You’re going to give me gray hair, you know that?”
“As if you’re not gray already?” I asked, poking him in the side. “Sorry to break it to you, old man, but that salt and pepper look has nothing to do with me. You were going gray long before I started dating.”
“But Jesse Crawford?” he asked again, raking his fingers back through his hair. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“It was one date, Dad. One movie, and he didn’t even kiss me.”
“No details.”
“I said he didn’t kiss me. Details should make you happy.”
“You’re dating Jesse Crawford,” he said, his expression souring. “Nothing about that makes me happy.”
“Oh, boy,” I rolled my eyes. “Please don’t make this more than what it is. It’s not a big deal.” Except it was. It was a huge deal—not because I was dating, but because of who I was dating. I’d known all along Dad wouldn’t like it, but I had no choice but to tell him. “I could’ve kept it to myself, you know?”
“I wish you would’ve.”
“Really?” I asked. “You would’ve rather I not said anything at all?”
“Yes.”
“And then what?” I asked. “You find out from someone else—Rosa, Carrie, or maybe even Thompson Crawford himself?”
Dad groaned. The “T” word was strictly off limits in our household, but since we’d escaped the house for a long walk around the park that night, I assumed it was fair game to throw out the name of my dad’s longest political rival.
“Okay, maybe you’re right.”
“Maybe?” I giggled. “Oh, come on.”
“Okay, fine, you’re right,” he said, throwing his arm around my shoulder.
“Damn Thompson Crawford,” we said at the same time, and we both laughed.
It was habit for us—cursing the man who’d caused my father so much grief over the years. Anytime his name was mentioned, we made sure to damn it, and with a smile, no less. We never really intended any harm on my father’s rival; it was fun to take harmless stabs at Thompson Crawford every chance we could get. His ill-attempts at sabotaging my father’s career was enough to earn him our disdain.
“Damn Thompson Crawford,” Dad said again, shaking his head. “And now you’re dating the evil spawn.”
“Jesse isn’t evil,” I said. “And he can’t help if his father is a complete and total tool bag.”
“But why him?” Dad asked, dropping his head back. “Of all the guys in the world, why him?”
I scoffed. Maybe because I hadn’t inherited my mother’s porcelain skin or fast metabolism, leaving me to look a lot like my father—average and plain, and packing on a few more pounds with every year that passed. Guys weren’t exactly lining up to date me. And even if it had nothing at all to do with the way I looked, I guessed it could be because Jesse had grown up understanding the pressure of the political life. We had that in common.
But really, the answer was simple: Jesse asked me out, so I said yes. What did I have to lose?
“It was one date,” I said again, hoping that the emphasis on that detail would soften the blow.
“So that’s it?” he asked, hopeful. “One date? You’re not going to see him again?”
“He sits in front of me in calculus,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I’ll see him again.”
“Sydney?”
“I had fun,” I admitted. “He’s nice, and he’s cute.”
“And he also has a rebellious past that’s caused his father an unnecessary amount of grief,” he reminded me. “He’s trouble.”
“He’s misunderstood.”
“He’s trouble,” Dad said again, cornering a look at me.
“So what? You hate Thompson Crawford, therefore you hate his son by default?”
“It’s not by default. The kid’s bad news. You deserve far better than him.”
“We’re not getting married, you know,” I said. “It was one date.”
“You keep saying that, and yet you’re defending him, which is proof enough that you’re more interested than you’re letting on.”
“So what? I like him!”
“You’re making me gray,” he said again, grasping at the roots of his hair. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Not intentionally.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved a hand.
It was late, and we’d finished our Thanksgiving dinner back at the house. We’d had to make do and celebrate our holiday early this year, since Dad was flying out of town for a last-minute meeting this week. Both of us stuffed and in dire need to walk off the week’s worth of calories we’d consumed in one sitting, Dad and I agreed to a stroll through the park; it was routine—we did it most every night.
I didn’t want to spoil our special holiday dinner with talk of boys—especially Jesse, so our walk would be the perfect time to spill the beans. And despite my father’s dramatic response to the news, he’d handled it a lot better than I’d expected.
“Come on, let’s sit.”
Dad nodded over to the bench at the edge of the path, and we both walked over to take a seat.
“What have I always taught you?” Dad asked.
“First impressions are lasting impressions?”
He gave me a look that said that wasn’t quite the answer he was looking for.
“Never doubt your instincts, Sydney,” he said, saying the same words I’d heard him repeat throughout a lifetime of guidance. “Your intuition is far stronger than you know, and you must trust it.”
“I know,” I smiled. “Dad, I pr
omise, I know.”
“And you trust it?” he asked. “You trust your instinct about this boy?”
He knew how he felt, so it wasn’t his instinct about Jesse that concerned him; he wanted to know where I stood. Because, at the end of the day, Dad trusted me—he trusted what I thought, and what I felt. He would respect any answer I gave him, as long as I was being honest with myself.
“I don’t know,” I said.
I wished that being honest with myself meant that I had some definite answer about our high school heartthrob, but there was nothing to go on. He simply existed in my world—tall, handsome, and brooding, and that was enough to catch my eye. His shady past didn’t play into it. Nothing did. His company was a way to fill my time, and I liked that. I liked having someone to gush over and about.
“I don’t know,” I said again. “Time will tell, I guess.”
“Intuition is instant.” Dad snapped his finger. “A gut instinct doesn’t take time.”
“Then I’m simply indifferent,” I said. “I’m not seeing hearts, but there’s not a red flag in sight either. My intuition about Jesse is strictly indifferent.”
Dad sighed.
“Not the answer you wanted?” I asked.
“Not even close.” He rubbed his face. “Let me get this shoe tied and we can get back to our walk,” he said, leaning down. As he slumped forward to lace up his shoe, I pulled my phone out to find two unread text messages.
The first was from Carrie; the message was a series of frantic emojis, a clear indication that she was amidst a major family crisis. My best friend, being one of six children and the only girl of the bunch, could never make it through a weekend without sibling rivalries and family drama. I replied with one simple emoji: a heart.
The second text was from Jesse, the “evil spawn” himself. The message was complete with two words: winter formal?
“What was that?” Dad asked, sitting straight again.
“Hmm?”
“You scoffed.”
“I didn’t scoff.”
“You most certainly did,” he said, glancing at my phone. Seeing the name on the screen, he dropped his head back to look at the dark sky. “Ah, no. Come on. Now you’re going to the winter formal with the guy? I have to chaperone that thing!”
Running Scared (Letters From Morgantown Book 1) Page 3