Page 24 of Faded Rhythm

Did you touch her?

I should’ve told you to have your way with her first if you want. Might as well right?

My jaw clenches so tight I hear the bones pop in my temple. My phone is a ten-pound weight in my hand.

I’ve worked for scumbags before. I’ve seen and heard the vile shit men say under the veil of masculinity. Locker room shit. Degenerate shit. But this feels different. This is some personal shit. There’s something about the casual cruelty in his words that tells me he fuckinghateshis wife. The mother of his children. And that shit makes my stomach turn.

Did I touch her?

The fact that he asked that has my blood boiling.

I have never, and I would never.

But I must admit, he scratched the surface of something I wanna keep buried. Something I have to keep buried so I can stay uncompromised.

I did wanna touch Sable. Of course I did. But not in the way this degenerate motherfucker means it.

I stare at my screen a few minutes longer, willing myself to calm down. To breathe. To focus.

Then I delete the message chain. I don’t want his words in my phone or in my head.

I take one last look out the window to make sure Brett’s backup plan is still in his place. He is.

Good for him. Because if he tries getting in here, I’ll splatter his brains all over the fucking wall and let Brett find that when he comes home from his little alibi trip.

Slowly, I make my way back upstairs, my feet silent out of habit. The hallway is dim, lit by the faint flow of a nightlight spilling out of one of the bedrooms.

It’s the first door on the left. I pause outside of it, pushing it open another inch so I can see inside. The older one—Kelice—is sprawled out sideways across the bed, one leg hanging off, her mouth slightly open. A soft snore escapes every now and then.

I move to the next door. Rae is curled into a tight ball under her blanket, which is covered in clouds. She clutches a stuffed sun that’s seen better days. Her thumb rests near her mouth for whenever she needs to soothe herself, I suppose.

Brett never even asked about them. I still can’t wrap my fucking head around that.

I move down the hall, back to Sable’s room. My heart thuds in my chest as I stop in front of her door and lift a hand to rest it against the wood.

It’s warm to the touch, or maybe it’s just my imagination. Or her body heat radiating from the other side.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

I’m trippin’.

I picture her on the other side of the door. She’s probably asleep. Is she curled up in the fetal position, nervous and tense? Or is she flat on her back, exposed, but feeling safe.

She’s probably awake. Probably staring at the ceiling with all kinds of worst-case scenarios running through her head. That seems most likely. And now, I wanna open the door, kneel beside her bed, and tell her everything’s gonna be okay. That I have this handled, and she’s safe. But I can’t. It’s not my place.

I can’t afford to let myself be compromised.

I drop my hand from the door and retake my seat.

The gun is in my pocket, my hand wrapped around it just in case the backup tries to come through the door.

With my free hand, I rub my sternum, purely out of habit. The old scar beneath my shirt still burns sometimes when the air changes. It’s a faint twinge. A phantom pain.

The red scarf flashes in my mind.

The woman. The fear in her eyes. The way her fingers clutched my shirt just before the blast. The shrapnel punctured me like a thousand knives. I stumbled backward, blood soaking through my shirt, the world tilting sideways.

I shake the memory loose, exhaling sharply through my nose.

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