Page 11 of Protected from Malice
We were all in hysterics listening to Indy’s report card comments, talking about all the pranks he played in the classroom and how he could be a straight-A student if he’d justfocus. How he put food coloring in the goldfish bowl to see if he could turn the fish blue—it didn’t, obviously, but thankfully, the fish survived—and snuck into the classroom at recess to reset the clock an hour faster in hopes the teacher would let them go home early.
In comparison, there was Eden with all her A-pluses and dozens of awards. She tried to brush the accolades aside, claiming she just studied a lot and Indy was as smart as she was. That’s when Indy grabbed Eden’s IQ scores and said, “You scored a two-hundred, Eeny. That’s genius level. Don’t diminish how smart you are. I’m proud of you. You should be too.”
I know Eden’s not an insecure person. But she’s quiet about it. She never wants recognition. Like she told me once, “If my work can save someone’s life, that’s the important thing. I don’t care about getting credit for it.”
“So,” Eden finally says, “you’re almost here? I thought it might be later, with all the traffic.”
“It was kind of shitty leaving the airport,” I reply while accelerating through the intersection. “But once I got out of the city, the traffic cleared up.”
“Good.” She pauses. “I’m sure you’re hungry after traveling all day. I was thinking I could make something once you get here. Um.” Another pause. “I could make spaghetti. Or grilled cheese.”
I can’t smother my laugh. Eden is great at a lot of things, but cooking isn’t one of them. “How about if we order something instead? Less work for you.”
Eden snorts softly. “You mean you don’t want to eat my cooking. I’ll have you know, my grilled cheeses have gotten much better over the last?—”
She stops.
Sucks in a sharp breath.
Worry shoots through me. “Eden? What is it?”
There’s no response.
Just the sound of rapid breathing.
Then scuffling.
Footsteps rush across the floor.
“Eden?” My voice is rough. Urgent. “What’s going on?”
A door slams shut.
My pulse skyrockets. “Eden. Talk to me.”
In a whisper, she says, “Someone… someone’s trying to get inside the house.”
“WHAT?”
The car jerks as I slam my foot to the floor.
“The alarm at the back door.” Her breathing gets louder. Quicker. More uneven. “It went off. And now… the camera’s not working. I can’t see anything. But I think…”
A scared whimper nearly tears my heart in two.
“Rafe.” Her voice is so small. So frightened. “I think I hear someone in the house.”
FUCK.
I urge the car even faster, my fear growing bigger with each horrible scenario I imagine.
Someone breaking in to rob the place, finding Eden there, hurting her.
Assaulting her.
Killing—
Fuck.
