Page 23 of Whispers of You
A flash of memory lanced through me. A sea of black after a week of black. Her brother’s funeral had been the last one. And we’d all been so damn tired of grieving.
Five funerals. Six people in the hospital. Two assailants in jail. The possibility of a third never identified, leaving the town to question everyone around them. It was more than we could take. But I knew it was the worst for people like Amber—those left behind.
“Of course. Good to see you.”
“You, too. Gym’s down that hall.” She pointed.
“Thanks.” I was already moving, taking my opening to escape additional ghosts.
The room was dark when I stepped inside. I tried the lights one by one until I illuminated the heavy bag and nothing else. As I strode toward it, I pulled the hand wraps from my pocket and began weaving them through my fingers in a familiar rhythm.
It didn’t take long to get them in place. I pressed a fist to the bag, testing the weight and the feel. Even if a bag was an exact duplicate of the one you typically used, it was never the same. The people who laid into it each and every day shaped it. How many? Were they short or tall? How hard did they hit?
Each testing jab was an introduction to the bag—a get-to-know-you between leather and fist.
I shifted my weight to my toes and picked up my pace. With speed came force. Wren’s face flashed in my mind. The expression that said I was nothing to her.
My hook slammed into the leather, making my bones rattle.
Flecks of emerald, the ones that blazed when I kissed her, teased and taunted.
My fists flew, each one hitting harder than the last. The sound had me hurtling back in time before I could do anything to stop it.
I slammed my truck’s door and jogged around the front, heading for the walkway. Wren would give me hell for this. I adjusted my grip on the flowers, hoping they would buy me a little goodwill—the peonies were hard as hell to find in Cedar Ridge. I’d had to beg the florist to order them special.
The sound of tires screeching had me glancing down the road. I caught sight of a dark SUVtaking off like a bat out of hell.Idiots. I swore I heard sirens in the distance. Maybe someone would pull the assholes over and ruin their joyride.
I turned back to the house, picking up my pace. My steps faltered as I reached the door. It stood ajar, just a few inches.
“Cricket?”
I pushed it open with two fingers. “You in here?”
No answer. I turned around, wondering if she’d headed outside for some reason, but I didn’t see any sign of her anywhere.
The scent of garlic roasted chicken filled the space as I stepped inside. I couldn’t help my chuckle. I hoped like hell we didn’t get food poisoning. My girl had mastered many things, but cooking wasn’t at the top of the list.
I caught sight of the dining table and stilled. It looked like it should’ve been in one of those home décor magazines: tablecloth without a single wrinkle, greenery woven around candles and flowers, the good china—the kind Wren’s mom only used for special occasions.
A grin pulled at my lips. She’d told me that she wanted tonight to be special. I shook my head as I climbed the stairs. Didn’t Wren know by now that she made every damn moment special just by breathing? My favorite moments were just her and me in the bed of my truck, staring up at the stars.
As I reached the top of the stairs, I listened for the shower, thinking that must’ve been why I hadn’t heard her. But there was nothing but silence.
I jogged toward her bedroom and stopped dead. It looked as if a hurricane had torn through the space. Pictures were smashed, the bedding was all askew, and feathers from her pillows lay scattered everywhere.
“Wren,” I called louder, panic digging in its claws.
There was no answer.
I swallowed, pulling my phone out of my pocket. Her house was one of the lucky ones that got cell service around here, and I was damn glad for it right then. I hit the first contact in my favorites.Cricketflashed on the screen, along with my favorite photo of her.
Wren’s head was tipped back as she took in the tail end of the sunset, a look of bliss on her face at knowing that her favorite time of day was coming—the twilight hour. She’d had no idea I’d snapped the photo, but that just made it sweeter.
A ringing started, first through my speaker and then down the hall. But the sound from down the hall was off somehow. Garbled.
Blood roared in my ears as I started toward the sound, a million brutal what-ifs playing in my mind. I looked in the guest room, but as soon as I stepped in, the sound got farther away. Hurrying out of there, I skidded to a stop outside the hall bath. As I stepped inside, everything in me froze.
My brain couldn’t compute the sight in front of me. It was something out of a horror movie, not real life.
