Urgent Care (16 page)

“I forgot them,” she lied.

He rubbed her hands between his, sharing his warmth as he led her out to his truck. “I don’t wonder, day you guys had over there. Is Nora okay?”

There was no answer to that. Who knew? Instead Lydia climbed into the truck as Trey held the door for her—despite the fact that he knew perfectly well that she could open it herself. That was just the kind of guy he was.

“The porch light burned out,” he said as he drove them to Regent Square and his parents’ house. “But we’re out of lightbulbs.”

“Top shelf of the pantry.”

“Oh. Guess I didn’t look hard enough. I was checking the basement and carport.”

It was still awkward, the give-and-take of sharing a living space. Or maybe it was Lydia who made it that way—she wanted Trey there, loved having him there, but sometimes it felt like a lot of work.

“I wasn’t sure if they’d crack out in the cold, so I put them in the pantry.”

“Right. Surfer girl isn’t used to our winters.”

“I just want to see the sun again.” She stared out her window at the colorful Christmas lights that adorned most of the houses, trees, and yards that they passed. “When does the sun come back?”

“Wait until your first good snow. You’ll love it.” They pulled up to his parents’ two-story colonial, parking behind a Dodge Caravan and an Explorer with a PROUD PARENTS OF A BEECHWOOD HONOR STUDENT bumper sticker in the back window.

Lydia jumped out before Trey could walk around to get the door for her. Damn, she’d forgotten the kids would be here. She couldn’t walk in with a loaded gun in her pocket. She pulled the Para Carry-9 out, released the magazine, and removed it. Trey arrived in time to see her yank the slide back to clear the bullet from the chamber.

“What the hell is that?” he asked.

“It’s safe now,” she answered, securing the ammunition in the glove compartment and zipping the now-empty compact nine-millimeter into her inside parka pocket.

“That’s not an answer. What the hell are you doing carrying a handgun?”

Trey’s obvious horror surprised her. After all, he’d grown up around guns, in a family of cops. Before she could answer, Ruby, Trey’s mother, opened the door, releasing several squealing kids into the night. They ranged from four to ten and raced down the walk to be the first to greet their uncle, whom they leaped on like he was a human jungle gym. A few shyly hugged Lydia as well.

Trey laughed and made fake groaning noises like Frank enstein’s monster as he hauled two hanging on his legs and one on his back across the porch. “Hiya, Mom,” he said, almost losing the girl on his back as he leaned over to kiss Ruby.

“Kids, let Trey and Lydia get their coats off and some food in them before you ambush them,” Ruby commanded, and the children scattered. “Lydia, how are you?” she asked, giving Lydia a warm hug. “I heard on the news there was trouble over at Angels today.”

“Good evening, Ruby,” Lydia said. The last thing she wanted to talk about was Karen’s murder. “Sorry we’re late.”

“Denny had his ear glued to that darn scanner, so we knew Trey would be home on time.” Trey’s father, Denny, was a retired Allegheny County deputy, and Trey’s two brothers and one of his sisters had followed their father into law enforcement. “But I guess there’s never any accounting when the ER’s going to get backed up, is there?”

Ruby’s voice was tinged with disapproval. Of course she’d immediately picked up the tension between Lydia and Trey—the woman was a walking radar.

Lydia and Ruby had an uncertain relationship. Ruby had made it clear that she liked Lydia, but she also seemed to realize that Lydia had some hard edges—sharper than anyone, especially Trey, appreciated.

They shed their coats and joined the rest of the family around the large dining room table. Patrice, Trey’s other sister, began serving apple dumplings, complete with hot caramel sauce and ice cream. The men talked about the holes in the Steelers’ offensive line, while Ruby refilled coffee cups for the adults and milk for the kids. “Trey, Lydia, do you want me to heat up the London broil?”

“Maybe after, Mom,” Trey said, digging into his dumpling. “You know what they say: life’s too short, eat your dessert first!”

The kids laughed at that. Lydia took a bite of her dumpling. Much better than any roast. “Did you make these?”

“I did,” Patrice said. “Enrollment is pretty low at the dance studio, so I have plenty of time on my hands.”

That rolled into a discussion of the economy, but Lydia couldn’t help but notice that Ruby’s glance kept returning to her. And Ruby didn’t look happy.

“So, Lydia,” she finally said, setting her cup down onto her saucer with a clink. “I’m so glad you’re going to join us on Saturday for our annual cookie bake.”

Lydia held back her groan. She’d totally forgotten that Trey had volunteered her to help the “girls” bake the Christmas goodies.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she lied.

“We were sorry you missed Thanksgiving. Can we expect you for Christmas dinner?”

There was a sudden hush as all eyes turned on Lydia. All except Trey. He seemed fascinated by the remnants of his dumpling, leaving Lydia to fend for herself.

She glanced at him, saw the hunch in his shoulders, the way he gripped his spoon, and realized how much her answer meant to him.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m working Christmas Eve but have Christmas Day off, so we should be here.” As soon as the words were out, Lydia’s nerves twanged with anxiety. Now she was committed to a full day of smiling small talk, exposing herself to their questions—Patrice, in particular, always took every opportunity to probe Lydia’s “mysterious” past—and enduring their patience when she made the inevitable faux pas. Like almost bringing a loaded gun into a house filled with kids.

Trey reached for her hand under the table and gave it a gentle squeeze. His shoulders were relaxed, his smile now wide and genuine, so she guessed it was worth it. She didn’t have to force her smile as she met his gaze.

“Trey, did you get your tree put up yet?” Patrice asked.

“We’re not getting a Christmas tree,” Trey answered.

“Why not?” Ruby asked, her tone slicing through the dinner table chatter surrounding them.

Lydia jumped in—better that she take the hit than Trey. After all, it was her decision. “It’s silly to kill a beautiful living thing and bring it into the house to watch it die.”

Another thud of silence. The children looked at her, eyes wide, mouths open. “How’s Santa going to know where to put your presents?” one asked.

“Mommy, our tree’s not
dead
, is it?” another wailed.

Ruby arched an eyebrow at Lydia. “I’m sure that’s not what Lydia meant. Is it, Lydia?”

Lydia swallowed. Her cheeks flushed with a warmth that spread down her neck and chest. She met Ruby’s gaze and realized she’d been less nervous about walking past Angels’ dark cemetery with a killer on the loose than she was facing Trey’s mother.

Family. Maybe she was better off without one.

 

 

THERE WERE MUDDY FOOTPRINTS ALL OVER NORA’S floor. In her sleep, she flailed about, trying to wipe them clean. But they turned to a sticky, smelly goo, flashing bright neon colors. The scent made her throat close tight. Sweet and sharp.

“Do you know me?”
A man’s voice, soft and insidious, kept time with her movements as she knelt on the floor, trying to clean. She couldn’t see the man, couldn’t tell where he was; his voice sounded all around her, crept inside her head.
“You know me, don’t you?”

“No, no, I don’t. I don’t know you. I don’t know you!” She repeated the words, whispering, crying, shouting them.

The sticky mess covered the floor, covered her hands; she couldn’t scrub it off her naked body. Now a new color was added: red, bloodred, it flowed over her hands. With it came a new smell, not sweet at all. Salty, coppery.

Death was in that smell, was inside her as she breathed it in. She began to choke and gag, tearing at her flesh.

“Get it off! Get it off!” she cried out, her voice startling her awake.

Her eyes were open; she was in her room, in her bed. Clawing at the sheets, tears streaming down her face, mingling with the sweat that poured from her as terror stampeded her pulse. Then a man’s form appeared in the doorway.

Instead of fueling her fear, she felt calmed. Seth rushed to her side, pulling her tight into his arms, rocking her, cooing soft nonsense words until she could breathe again.

“I’m okay,” she whispered, her voice still hoarse from her panic.

“You’re okay.” Seth soothed her hair with his fingers. “You’re okay.”

Her lips and fingers tingled from hyperventilating. Her head pounded as adrenaline and fear subsided. She held a hand out before her. No paint, no blood.

“I’m okay.” This time it was a statement of fact. She slid free of Seth’s embrace and threw back the covers. Her night-gown was soaked through with sweat, reeking of fear.

She went into the bathroom, stripped naked, and showered the stench away. By the time she emerged, dressed in clean pajamas, wrapped in a comforting flannel robe, Seth was waiting for her in the kitchen, a pot of milk heating on the stove.

“Half cocoa, half cinnamon tea, just the way you like it,” he said, mixing the concoction he had created for her night terrors when they’d lived together.

She took the mug from him and withdrew to the living room to avoid the mess he’d left behind in her kitchen. She’d deal with it in the morning.

Curling up on the chair, she sipped the soothing drink. “I wish DeBakey were here.”

Seth walked in, carrying his own mug, and sat on the side of the couch nearest to her. “You can come home. Anytime. Or he can come here. Anytime. You know that.”

She shrugged one shoulder. She did know that. But she didn’t have the heart to confuse the dog. Not to mention breaking her heart fresh every time she’d have to see Seth to exchange custody. Hard enough to see him at work where she could divorce her feelings from her job.

“Who’s taking care of him tonight?”

“Bradley.” The kid who lived next door and whose mother was deathly allergic to dogs. Or so she said. She didn’t seem to have any problem with Bradley watching DeBakey before and after school and on nights when Seth was on call. “He’s having a hard time with his dad again, so I think he sees our place as a refuge. Kid’s practically been living there since I came back on the trauma service.”

Nora nodded. Bradley’s dad was in the National Guard and was a strict disciplinarian when he was home, which wasn’t often.

A comfortable silence settled between them. She finished her drink but pretended to keep sipping, not wanting to leave Seth’s company. Things had been so good—she and Seth, what they had had was good. Until she made the mistake of telling him about her rape.

Then things had changed. Seth had changed. Watching her constantly—she’d seen the questions in his eyes, but he never asked them aloud. He was solicitous, but after that night when she’d told him, he hadn’t tried to make love to her again. Barely touched her. Like she would break—or was already broken.

Not that their love life had ever been stellar. She’d always wondered why a guy as handsome as Seth, a guy who could have any woman he wanted, had put up with her. She tried her best to act normal during sex, but it was always an act, he had to know that. And then there were her night terrors, her fear of the dark, her panic attacks.

No wonder it had been so easy to believe that he’d turned to a woman like Karen. Karen could meet his needs—all of them. Fun, sexy, beautiful Karen. Perfect for Seth, the answers to his prayers.

Anger burned through her. That she’d been so stupid—that he had let her go. Even if she believed his sleepwalking excuse, that didn’t explain everything. He must have wanted to let her go, and his subconscious had sent him into Karen’s arms. Made it possible for them to break up without him telling her the real reason: she was damaged goods.

She stood up and set the mug on the table, resisting the urge to take it to the kitchen and wash it. “I’m going back to bed.”

He sat on the couch, elbows on his thighs, looking up at her, holding his mug with two hands. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

He gave her a sharp look. “Right.”

“Okay, maybe I’m not. But I’m alive. That’s got to count for something.” Her anger spilled over into her words, giving them an edge. It felt good.

“Of course it does.” He got up, leaving his mug beside hers on the coffee table. He stepped around the table to her side. “Nora—”

“No, Seth. Don’t.” She grabbed the mugs and fled to the kitchen. He followed, watching from a safe distance as she gave in to the urge to clean up, finding solace in the repetitive movements.

“Don’t what?” he finally asked as her movements grew less frenzied. “Try to help?”

“Just don’t. It’s hard enough taking care of myself right now. I just don’t—” She turned to him, a damp sponge in her hand, her voice cracking. “I don’t have energy to worry about you, too.”

His face creased, and she thought he might cry. Instead, he stepped to her. He took the sponge from her, threw it in the sink, and took her hand, leading her to her bedroom. “Why don’t you try letting me do the worrying for a change?”

He tucked her in as if she were a child—and it felt good to let someone else take charge, even if it was only for a few moments. She didn’t feel like she was surrendering or giving anything up, more that she was being taken care of. Cherished.

She’d forgotten how good that felt. Decadent. So much better than any spa day indulgence. Just a man caring for a woman.

Her anger and churned-up emotions calmed as she watched him double-check her window locks and turn all the lights on—he knew she couldn’t sleep in the dark. But then he surprised her, crawling in on the other side of the bed.