“We’ll deal with party planning later. What aren’t you telling me?”
Ava’s insight was all too clear. One of the pitfalls of having a best friend trained to read people and their actions. Dan pulled into a parking space outside San Francisco College of Medicine and turned toward Ava.
She jumped in first. “Everything okay with Ben? Your dad?”
The concern in Ava’s voice broke through Dan’s jumbled thoughts. Ava cared for his family. Her interest was real and genuine. He’d always appreciated that about her. “Dad is fine. He’s opened the mother-in-law apartment to a fire evacuee.”
“That’s wonderful and...” Ava’s words drifted off as if she sensed there was more.
He supposed she could read him well enough to know there was more. They’d worked in tandem too many nights on call in the ambulance not to be able to figure out each other.
“There’s more,” Dan admitted. He pushed Ava’s hand toward her. “Put the phone on speaker and press Play on the voice mail.”
Ava glanced at the phone screen. Shock slowed her words. “Valerie called six times. Valerie, as in your ex-wife, Valerie. The ex-wife who is now with your younger brother.”
Dan’s heartbeat stalled as if that assailant connected with a knockout punch after all. Five years ago, Dan had been pretzeled on his son’s hospital bed, Ben finally asleep on his chest. He’d been adjusting Ben’s IV lines and scolding himself for his misstep in caring for his sick son. The flu had played havoc with Ben’s glucose levels; the vomiting had only compounded things. Ben had been admitted to the hospital for the fourth time that year. And Dan had feared he’d never get it right.
Then the text from Valerie had arrived. Not a checking-on-her-sick-son text. But rather a picture of Valerie with her arms wrapped around Dan’s younger brother, her lips pressed against Jason’s cheek. The caption—Monte Carlo brought us together—in bold print underneath. Valerie had followed that with a quick explanation: There wasn’t an easy way to tell you. But we both want each other to be happy, right?
Dan had dropped the phone on the floor and curled his arms around his young son. Determined to focus on his true family and guard those he loved from harm.
Years later and he’d kept his promise. He’d gotten over his ex-wife. But he wasn’t as numb to his brother’s betrayal as he wanted to be.
Dan finally dipped his chin, the motion stiff, his voice flat. “That’s her.”
“What does she want?” Suspicion laced Ava’s tone.
“Play the voice mail and we can find out.” Unease twisted through his stomach again.
Valerie’s lyrical voice with her upbeat excitement, like she had a really great secret to share filled the truck. “Bon journo, Dan. Call me back, please. Maybe not now. My connection isn’t the best. But call me. Ciao.”
“You can delete it.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Ava checked the time and swore under her breath. “I have to go to class.”
“I don’t want it to be a big deal.”
He had no idea what Valerie wanted. He only knew he had to protect Ben from getting hurt by her again. This time Ben was old enough to feel his heart breaking if his mother let him down again.
“It already is.” Ava tossed the phone at Dan. “You have to call Valerie back. See what she wants.”
Dan gripped the phone. “You have to get to class.”
“I know. I know. Text me as soon as you talk to Valerie. Otherwise, I won’t be able to concentrate in neurology.” Ava opened her door, climbed out of the truck and leaned back inside. “You’re still good with everyone coming over Friday night, right?”
“Definitely.” Several phone calls from his ex-wife and a new tenant were not going to alter his life or change his schedule. “I’m making chicken and waffles, so let everyone know to come hungry.”
Ava pointed at his phone. “Call her.”
The truck door slammed shut. Dan stuffed his phone in the empty drink holder and backed out of the parking space.
Call Valerie?
Not on his life.
I’M GOING TO SUFFOCATE.
Brooke shoved aside the thick down comforter, smacked her bare feet on the wooden floor of the bedroom and lunged for the light switch.
Light flooded across the unfamiliar four-poster bed, highlighting the rustic roses embroidered on the comforter. It wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough to banish the nightmares of her past.
She stumbled into the kitchen, slapped at the light switches. The night pressed against the windows. Her fear pressed against her chest, sucking away the air and her sanity.
She should never have returned.
The clock on the microwave glowed as if mocking her lack of bravery. Rick had given her a tour of the one-bedroom cottage behind the main house less than three hours ago. Welcomed her and her pets into the unit. And she’d believed—in that moment—everything would be all right.
Lies. So many lies. You’re destined for great things, Brooke. Dream big. Reach for the stars, dear.
She’d reached like her mom had encouraged her. Now she was alone, like she’d been as a child. The shy misfit scared of her own shadow.
But the shadows haunted her now with a different intensity.
You’ll always be safe with me, Brooke. Even Phillip had lied. Promises couldn’t be kept in a world where twists of fate took away the promisor.
She turned on the lamps in the family room. Flipped the switch for the gas fireplace. Lit up the apartment as if that would steady her world. Prove she was safe.
Brooke reached for her cell phone, her fingers slipping on the granite kitchen counter. She opened the city-map app. Typed in the address that tormented her and stole her good night’s sleep.
Two-point-six miles. That was all that separated Brooke from the very corner where a drunk driver had taken everything she’d loved from her. All the promises shattered.
Inhale into your stomach. And hold it for a count of five. So many therapy sessions and still she forgot how to breathe. The urge to run seized her.
Instead her knees buckled. She had nowhere to go.
She collapsed on a kitchen stool and stared at the blue pin flashing over the corner of Bayview and State Streets. The spot she hadn’t returned to in the past five years. She’d never again wanted to step foot two hundred miles from there much less twenty blocks.
Deep breaths from your stomach. Increase the oxygen. Slow yourself down. She exhaled on a five count. Now repeat.
Her gaze skipped around the open space, seeking something—anything—to focus on. The compact, modern kitchen encouraged even an amateur cook like herself to prepare a decadent three-course meal. The empty bar stools waited for friends to gather. The vintage couch and matching chair were worn and relaxed from years of conversations and comfortable use.
Only one word echoed through Brooke: trapped.
She was boxed in like the three crystal angel ornaments—Joy, Hope, Love—wrapped inside the wooden jewelry case handmade by her father. Her late husband had given her the angels on their third anniversary. Phillip had claimed the angels would remind her to laugh, to always find the good in everything and to never give up.
There was one other option: her former in-laws,