Page 34 of Tate
Huh. “Because I’m in the Navy. And that’s where… Mom, are you okay?”
“Oh, I’m fabulous. Gary and I are going dancing tonight over at the Oakhill Supper Club.”
Scarlett stilled. Gary? “Mom…Gary—he…is he with you? Now?”
“No. He said…he’ll be back. Axel…find my shoes. We’re going for a drive. For ice cream!”
Scarlett’s throat tightened. “Mom, where is Gunnar?”
Silence. “Who?”
“Mom? Gunnar. My little brother?”
A funny laugh emerged through the phone, one that reached into Scarlett’s gut and twisted.
“Can I talk to Axel?” She pressed her hand to her chest.
The sound turned muffled, and Axel apparently regained the phone.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s not a good day, Scarlett. She’s…she’s been in a lot of pain since the car accident?—”
“Thecaraccident?”
“Yeah. Totaled the wagon five months ago and twisted her back. The doc gave her some pain meds?—”
“And you let her take them? Have you lost your mind?” Scarlett slid onto a chair. “She’s an addict—and she was…she was doing so well…” She cupped her hand over her face. “Where’s Gunnar?”
“He’s fine. At school.”
Scarlett tried to picture it—Axel as the only semi-sober adult in the house—and went a little cold.
“Call back tomorrow. It might be a better day.” He hung up.
She sat there, struggling to breathe.
Oh. Help.
She covered her face with both hands now. No, she and Sammy-Jo Hathaway weren’t exactly close—hadn’t been since Scarlett left home at seventeen. But she still cared what happened to her.
Still sent checks home every month.
Which clearly Axel was cashing. And probably using for his own fix.
Scarlett stood up, not sure where to start sorting through her options, when the doorbell rang.
Her doorbell?
She had neighbors, sure, but hadn’t met even one of them.
It was Girl Scout Cookie season, however, so?—
Ford stood at her door.
She just blinked at him, not sure the heat hadn’t gone to her head.
He wore a plain black T-shirt, a pair of cargo shorts, and flip-flops. Without his tactical gear on, he seemed less overwhelming, but not much, that shirt outlining his off-hour activities. He hadn’t shaved today—but clearly had whisked off the beard he’d grown during deployment, his whiskers short and dark. And he’d gotten a haircut. High and tight, dark and precise. A pair of sunglasses sat upside down behind his neck and he looked at her with those pale green eyes, and oh my, even out of his uniform, in person, the man could reduce her to babbles and incoherent stammering.
