“It won’t be ready for a while, you might be when it’s done. Or is there something else you’d prefer?”
“Whatever’s easiest,” she tells me. When I bend and lift the tray from her lap, her eyes harden slightly. When she breathes in, the sustenance has made her stronger. “I asked you before, now I’ll ask you again, Jeremiah. Why are you in my house?” There’s a spark in her green eyes that wasn’t there earlier. Hmm, maybe she won’t be a pushover.
Raising my chin, I acknowledge her but leave to deposit the tray in the kitchen. When I return and take the armchair, I sit back, balancing an ankle on the opposite knee and steeple my hands under my chin. My choice of seat has her narrowing her eyes, as if it once belonged to someone else.
15
Cat…
What would have happened if Jeremiah hadn’t turned up? Would I have died in the cellar? Hungry, cold, and paralysed with fear of being eaten alive by rats? I could still be there now if he hadn’t arrived.
He’d stayed and he helped. But what do I know of him except he’s ex-Navy? I might have a general respect for any man who’s served, but I shouldn’t be blinded by it. While it seems unlikely, unless he knew because Weston told him where I was, there’s no other reason that he had stopped by the house. Unless it was with the intention of robbing a home, which appeared empty. I mustn’t discount he’s here for purposes which don’t have my best interests in mind, despite how much he’s helping me.
I watch him take the seat that was my father’s. It’s wrong seeing another man sitting there. Since his death, it’s been left empty. But nothing is right about this stranger being in the house. He doesn’t belong here, and definitely not in that chair.
The food, drink, and being warmed up, has made me feel stronger. How many hours ago was it he rescued me now? I’ve been sleeping or crying the whole time it would seem. Why has this stranger taken on the task of caring for me? Why, when by happenstance he found me, did he not go straight to the cops?
He should have taken me to the hospital, that’s where I should be now. I’d have hated that. As a nurse I know there’s not much else that could be done for me other than the tasks he’s quite expertly performed. Warmth, water to rehydrate, and food in small quantities.
A doctor wouldn’t have chased away my nightmares with his arms.
But who is he? And how did he find me?
He knows Weston. I’m being stupid if I look any further than that. Am I still trapped in the bad dream of my cousin’s making? My gut tells me Jeremiah wouldn’t be helping me if he were a danger to me. But what if my gut’s wrong? I didn’t trust Weston, but I never thought he’d leave me to die. The question remains, did he send Jeremiah here to rescue me? Was Weston held up and sent him instead? Did he not expect to leave me so long? Was my suffering an accident or by design?
I need answers.
Jeremiah seems to be taking a moment to come up with something to tell me. I try to prepare myself to hear lies and wonder whether he’ll try to con me. Con men are successful simply because they’re adept at covering their true nature. Is he trying to concoct a believable story right now?
He’s been kind.
Why?
I’m not a woman who likes to feel weak, but being so helpless, unable to free myself, has knocked all the stuffing out of me. Now, for my preservation, I need to dig deep and find my strength again.
I didn’t protest when he held me naked, or when he helped to dress me. In my fragile state, I trusted him.
Who is he? Jeremiah Briggs. A non-descript name. But not a non-descript person, no way. His face has a swarthy complexion, his eyes so dark they seem like mirrors into his soul. His rugged features are handsome, his body muscular and strong, I know. I wasn’t that out of it when he carried me as if I was no weight at all. His hair makes him seem like two different people when viewed from one side or the other. One half is long, and the other shorn. Just fashion? Or is there a deeper meaning?
He’s done everything right. He set me free, got me warm, fed me carefully as though he knows exactly what to do. But conversely, he did everything wrong. Why didn’t he call professionals to help me?
He wants something, I know it.
He knows Weston. The thought won’t leave my mind.
Can I trust a man who knows my evil cousin?
He buried my dog. But can I trust it wasn’t him who killed Caspar? Evidence tells me I can. I hadn’t heard Caspar barking or trying to get to me since Weston left me alone. Swallowing hard, I tamp down my sadness at the loss of my mom’s faithful companion. There’ll be time to grieve later.
“Well?” I prompt, realising he hasn’t attempted to answer my question. When he doesn’t immediately answer, I feel my red-headed temper flare. “For fuck’s sake, tell me what’s going on.”
His fingers tap against his chin. “Before I answer you, I’d like to know why you booked Weston an Airbnb in Utah.”
What? I pull my aching legs up under me. “It seems like you already know,” I snap waspishly. I was already nervous about a connection between him and Weston. I’m doubly so now.
“I know your account was used to book the place, but as to how much you were involved, that’s what you’re going to tell me.”
I am, am I? “And if I don’t want to tell you?”
The look he shoots me sends a shiver down my spine. He wouldn’t have saved me just to hurt me, would he? But hell, what do I know, particularly about men who could be friends with Weston? The trouble with having the famed red-hot temper means I sometimes speak first with later regret. I can’t anger him, like Tiny, he’s too big to fight, even if I were stronger. I tone it down.
“How do you know my cousin?” I ask directly. “Did you get to know him in prison?”
“Answer me,” he snaps, then shakes his head, the rage that quickly entered his eyes dies, and he holds out his hands palms up. “Cat, look, you don’t know me. Can you trust me when I say I never knew Weston?” He barks a short laugh. “And I’ve never been in prison. But Weston was involved in hurting someone… close to me. I’ve come here to find answers. The trail led to you and that booking of the fishing cabin.”
I’m quiet for a moment. Weston hurt someone close to him? That in itself is believable. Heaven knows, he used to hurt me. Frowning down at my hands, I wish I could go back and change things. If only I hadn’t given in to Weston. I should have known the fishing trip was nothing of the sort. But if I’d fought him, he’d have fought back, and he’s so much bigger than me. But why don’t I just tell him? I’ve done nothing wrong.
I take a breath and decide to come clean. Perhaps once he knows, he’ll just leave. That’s what I want, isn’t it? “You already know Weston is my cousin. We never got along. He was always a bully. He was the kid that would pull the wings off of butterflies just for fun.”
Jeremiah’s face once again flushes, but this time I don’t think his anger is directed at me. “He ever hurt you?” His words are clipped and he has the grace to look sheepish. “Before he locked you in a root cellar, that is.”
I lower my head, for some reason ashamed of what my cousin had done to me, both recently and in the past. It’s like admitting a weakness but I say, “Yes, he did. He’s an only child like myself. His mom and dad, my aunt and uncle, are lovely. It was always a mystery how they went so wrong with their son. After Weston broke my arm, I didn’t have much to do with him. My parents didn’t want me going over there, and he never came here, to our home.”