Page 54 of Axe-ing for Trouble
“Take me to the trailer park,” I urged.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” He blew out a long breath, his focus fixed on the winding road. “What if you’re recognized? I won’t put you in danger.”
“At this point, not finding the phone is more dangerous.” I leveled him with a glare. “I’ll put my hat back on, and I’ll stay out of sight.”
When he flipped the turn signal on, I was hit with a rush of hope and affection for him. He was pushing aside his caveman instincts and trusting me. I wasn’t sure when I’d last felt so respected.
“But you’re not going into that trailer,” he warned.
“They probably trashed it.” I lifted a shoulder. “If I think there’s anything worth salvaging, I’ll send you.”
He shook his head and continued on. As we rode in silence, I sent up prayers to any deity who might be listening that the phone was out there and the evidence was still accessible. That all this work and anguish hadn’t been for nothing.
Thirty minutes later, we turned into Pine Tree Acres. I pulled my hat over my head and slumped down in the seat, watching carefully out the window for people I recognized or anything out of the ordinary.
As we drove farther into the park, I was hit with a wave of embarrassment. The place was a dump. I should have come alone.
Pine Tree Acres was gross by rural Maine trailer park standards. And that was saying something. But it was cheap and close to the main hub in Heartsborough. It had been a good cover, living here on my own, keeping quiet about my past.
I shifted, grimacing as we passed a car with four flat, rotting tires. “I’m sorry for bringing you here. This may have been a mistake.”
The homes near the entrance were nicer. The residents there lived in double-wides with potted plants out front and outdoor furniture. My single-wide wasmuchfarther back.
“Where was your place?” Jude’s expression remained impassive, free of judgment.
I pointed to the back road, where most places were deserted and crumbling. One nicer trailer was clearly a meth lab, but the people who worked there were quiet and clean. So I kept my distance.
The owner of the park, Betty—a chain smoking seventy-something with teased hair and a Harley—had been more than happy to accept cash when my rent payment was due. She didn’t ask questions and I didn’t offer any information.
At the time,it made sense.
But now, as I cataloged the details through Jude’s eyes, this all felt wrong. What the hell had I gotten myself into?
My heart rate picked up, and my breathing went shallow. “I had a home,” I babbled, my face heating. “Or I used to. Before I ended my lease. A townhome in the East End of Portland. I used to walk along the harbor and go to trivia night with my colleagues on Tuesdays.”
Jude was silent as he navigated through the park. The farther we got, the shabbier the homes looked. With each passing second, the shame that had hit me grew.
“My mom and I went to the outdoor summer concerts in Payson Park. She’d get whoopie pies from Becky’s Diner for my birthday every year,” I rushed out. “But.” I snapped my mouth shut and eyed him.
He glanced my way, his brow furrowed in concern.
“But I fell apart after Hugo was attacked. The same kind of fear I’d felt when I was overseas in a war zone took over, and when the adrenaline joined in, it was as if I had to be alert and ready to go at all times.”
He looked over at me with nothing but compassion. God, I wished I could go in for another hug right now. The way he’d held me in the woods was more comforting than any hug had the right to be. Like he was there to keep me on my feet when I no longer had the strength to remain upright. Against my better judgment, I trusted him.
“I think I got addicted.”
“Addicted to what?”
“Living in survival mode.” I let out a shaky breath. “Waking up ready to fight. I’ve been cooped up at your place for over a week, and my nervous system has been twitchy for days already. It feels like I can’t function unless I’m digging and investigating and moving forward.”
He gently placed his hand over mine and gave it a light squeeze.
“It’s PTSD,” he said. “You’ve been through so much.”
It was unnerving how he could practically see into my soul and read my innermost thoughts so easily. I wasn’t the heart-on-my-sleeve kind of girl. No, I was battle hardened. Elusive. Mysterious. I’d been living as Amy for over a year, for God’s sake.
Yet after only a few days with this guy, he was diagnosing my trauma.
