Page 91 of Middle Ground
“All the fucked up shit that’s been happening,” she replies. “First the spray paint, the pictures, and then the fire in the storage room. Now your brakes. What if they were tampered with? It’s like someone’s out to get us. Or me.”
“You think Reggie could be capable of all this?”
Our former employee, as far as we know, is still in the wind. He was suspect number one when the spray paint occurred, but if that wasn’t an isolated incident, I’m not sure. Surely someone would have seen him if he’s been lurking around, causing trouble. It isn’t exactly easy to hide when everyone knows everyone in this town.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe? I didn’t think he was capable of stealing from the register, yet he did.”
“Theft and vandalism are a far cry from arson and tampering with brakes.”
The consequences of the latter are a lot more severe. Meyer could havediedtoday. The fire in the storage room could have trapped numerous guests if they hadn’t all been evacuated in time. If that fire extinguisher hadn’t been there, who knows what would have happened to me.
If someone is behind all of this, they are playing a dangerous game with other people’s lives.
“Whoever this is, they don’t seem like they’re going tostop,” Meyer says. Her voice cracks. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”
I frame her face in my hands. My thumb brushes her cheekbone as I meet her gaze.
“We’ll get through this,” I assure her. “Everything will be okay.”
I try desperately to keep the uncertainty from my voice. The truth is, I don’t know what’s going to happen. If, like Meyer said, whoever this is doesn’t stop, someone is going to get hurt. It’s only a matter of time, especially if they escalate.
She nods at my words, but I know the reassurance is temporary. We’re both aware that I can’t promise anything, not really.
“Alright,” I say, “time for bed. Do you need anything? Water?”
With a small wince, she sits on the edge of the mattress and then leans back against the headboard. “Water would be nice. Thank you.”
Her gratitude shines in her eyes, but it’s the least I can do for her. So I head out to the kitchen and pour her a glass. When I return, I find Meyer watching me. The expression on her face is hard to read. I settle on the bed beside her and then turn in her direction. She’s chewing on her bottom lip so hard, I’m surprised she hasn’t drawn blood.
“Please tell me this isn’t a guilt thing,” she says.
My brows furrow. “Is what a guilt thing?”
“This.” She waves her hands around. “This fussing all over me, getting me water.”
While some part of me would always wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t let her borrow my car—if Ihad driven her myself instead—that isn’t why I’m here right now. In truth, there is nowhere I would rather be, whether Meyer was hurt or not.
Fussing over her, in a situation where I feel almost no sense of control, helps me stay calm.
“This,” I say, handing her the glass, “is anI want to take care of you because you’ve had a long daything. Is that acceptable?”
Her head cocks to the side as she thinks. “Yeah, I think that’s acceptable. As long as you don’t go off the deep end and start offering up your organs or something.”
I laugh. “I think I can agree to that.”
While she drinks her water, I get myself ready for bed, and then I slide beneath the sheets right beside her. I’m hesitant to touch her, but she makes the decision by shifting closer to me.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I say as I tense.
She shakes her head. “You won’t.”
I take her hand and intertwine our fingers. “Not taking any chances.”
She rolls her eyes, but a soft smile slips onto her lips. “Thank you,” she whispers.
I tighten my hand in hers. “What are you thanking me for?”
Her shoulder lifts in a half shrug. “I know I don’t make caring about me all that easy,” she replies sheepishly. “Thanks for doing it anyway.”
