Page 149 of The Home Grown
The door opens again, pulling my attention back, my heart banging wildly in my chest.
“Sorry, I—” He rummages through a pile of papers. “—I think … you weren’t anywhere near Kings Road tonight, were you?”
I gawk at him. “No, I?—”
“Right, thanks. You’re free to go.”
“What the—what’s Hobbsy got to do with this?” I ask.
The officer clenches his jaw.
“Your name came up in an investigation, but you definitely don’t match the description or the CCTV footage. If I’m honest, we weren’t banking on it being you, but—look, thanks for your time. Take care.”
And the door slams shut.
I stand frozen to the spot, completely dumfounded. All that worry … all the stress and … forthat?
“Bud? Everything okay?” Johnny sets a hand on my shoulder.
“I—” I turn towards him, my jaw tight. “Fucking Hobbsy,” I say.
“Hobbsy? Who’s that?” Johnny says.
“I played junior hockey with him and he—I?—”
“What happened?” Johnny says.
“Well, they didn’t tell me, but … sounds like they were looking for someone in connection with him. He probably gave them my name for whatever reason. Honestly?—”
“So, nothing to do with Rochelle?”
I shake my head. “No.”
Johnny blows out a breath. “Well, that’s great news.”
We turn and walk back to his car, an odd anti-climactic stress sitting heavy on my shoulders. Because despite this being a false alarm, there’s still every chanceshecould cause me a problem in the near future.
As soon as I’m in his car, I’m on my phone, searching the internet for information, trying to find out if there’s a window of opportunity for her. Trying to figure out how long I’ll be worrying about this.
I say goodbye to Johnny in the stairwell, pulling him into a quick hug and thanking him for having my back.
I drag myself upstairs, every limb heavy, my spirit shrivelled. The weight of the false alarm still clinging to me like that stale tobacco smoke—sharp and sour—even though I’m in the clear. For now.
I open the door to my apartment, expecting an inquisition from Hutch, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Instead, I’m greeted by the faint smell of…
It can’t be, can it?
But it is. It’s her. She’s here.
Ellie.
Curled up on my sofa in my hoodie, sleeves hiding her hands. She looks up from her phone and offers me the gentlest smile.
And I exhale—like I’ve been holding my breath since the second I left her.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, plucking at the hem of the hoodie. “I was cold.”
But I’ve never minded anything less.
