“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“You think their deaths are … linked?”
Something in her tone has my brow furrowing and my back stiffening. “Are you asking me because you think I know the answer to that question?”
“What?” She blanches. “God, no!”
“Well, once a killer, always a killer, right?”
“I don’t think that!” Her tone is emphatic, and I find myself believing her. “I know you killed that man in self-defense.”
“If you knew, then why ask me about what happened that night?”
“Because I wanted to hear the words from you. I know what I read, but I want to hear the actual story from you.”
I stare directly at her. “Why?”
“Because …” She trails off, looking down at her hands resting in her lap. She looks vulnerable.
“Why?” I ask again.
Her eyes lift to mine, and my heart bangs hard in my chest because it’s clear in her eyes. She wants to know because she feels for me what I feel for her, and it’s confusing her. Because she shouldn’t feel this way about me.
A parole officer shouldn’t want her parolee. Especially not one who was convicted of murder.
“Because I need to know,” she says softly.
“I murdered a man in self-defense. I’d found myself in a situation that got out of control. I’d acted on instinct, and a man died.”
“It could have happened to anyone.”
“You really believe that?” I ask her in a disbelieving tone.
“Yes.” She nods.
“Is my parole officer supposed to be this impartial?”
“I’m not speaking to you as your parole officer right now.”
“What are you speaking to me as?” I ask her, my heart taking off in a gallop.
She lets out a breath and then reaches over the console and covers my hand with hers, sliding her slender fingers over my rough knuckles. “Your friend.”
But nothing about her touch says friend. It says so very much more, and in this moment, I know I’m totally and completely fucked.
I’m lying in bed with a fucking child’s night-light and sound machine on, trying to get some sleep, when someone starts hammering on my front door.
A quick glance at my cell phone tells me it’s just after eleven.
Who the hell would be coming here at this time?
If it were the cops, they’d announce themselves and then kick the door in.
My mind briefly flashes to Eden. Could it be her? It’s been a few days since our moment—if you could call it that—in her car, and I haven’t seen or spoken to her since.
I get out of bed and make my way to the front door, flicking the lights on as I go. The banging continues.
“All right! All right! I’m coming.”
I unlock the door and wrench it open, and Eden is on the other side of it.
She looks like she’s been crying.
My heart plummets to my stomach. “Jesus! Eden, are you okay? What happened?” I reach for her, ushering her inside and closing the door behind us.
“Annabeth and Laura are dead!” she sobs.
“Your friends from high school?”
“Yes, and they’re both dead!” she cries.
“Both of them?” I push a hand through my hair. “What happened?”
“They were murdered!”
I walk her over to the sofa and guide her to sit down. I sit beside her.
“They were both killed?”
“Murdered,” she reiterates on a cry, staring at me, wide-eyed. “Annabeth’s sister called me a few hours ago. Her body was found at their parents’ cabin. She’d gone up there for a few days, but when she didn’t come back and they couldn’t get ahold of her, her dad went there to check on her, and she was—she was …” She breaks off on a sob. “Dead. She’d been dead for days! Her sister didn’t say what happened to her, just that she’d been murdered.”
“And Laura? Was she there with Annabeth?” I ask in a gentle voice.
“No. I was at home, reeling from what had happened to Annabeth. I turned on the TV, and there it was on the news. Laura had been found at our old high school! She was …” She claps a hand over her mouth, fresh tears filling her eyes. Her hand slides from her mouth as tears roll down her face. “She was found naked, tied to the football post, and she’d been stabbed to death.”
“Jesus.”
“Wade, Aaron, Annabeth, and Laura. I’m the only one left.” Her voice trembles. “D-does this mean I’m next?”
“What? No, of course not.” I say those words, but I’m not sure I believe them. She’s right when she says she’s the only one left from their group that hung out at high school.
“I’m scared, Axel.”
“It’s going to be fine, I promise.” I wrap my arms around her, holding her close to me.
She’s quiet, her silent tears dripping on my chest, and I become acutely aware that I’m not wearing a sleep shirt. Just my pajama bottoms. And she smells fucking amazing and feels even better in my arms. Like she was always meant to be held by them.
“I’m sorry I woke you,” she says softly, her breath brushing against my chest.
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
“I’m not really sure why I came here.” Her hand presses against my chest, and I stop breathing. “I just … you were the first person I wanted to talk to.”
“Well, I’m glad you came.” And I really am glad she came to me when she needed comfort.
But isn’t it just fucking typical of my life that the girl I always wanted but never got to have now wants me, but neither of us can act upon it?
She looks up at me, blinking with lashes that are glistening with tears.
My eyes drop to her lips. Those gorgeous lips that I’ve dreamed of … obsessed over kissing.
Before I know it, she leans in and presses her lips to mine. I freeze.
Holy fuck, she’s kissing me.
Do something, you moron. Like kiss her back.
She pulls away before I can reciprocate. She looks mortified. “God, I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have done that! I’m your—”
I cut her off with a kiss before she can say the words I really don’t want to hear. Because if I do, I won’t keep kissing her, and I really, really want to fucking kiss her.
Her arms slide around my neck, and I pull her close to my body, kissing her like I’ve always wanted to do.
Eden and I made out like teenagers on my sofa until the kisses became lazy and languid, and she eventually fell asleep, her head on my chest.
I’ve been lying here for the past few hours, just listening to the sound of her soft breaths, loving the feel of her, but contemplating what we just did, knowing that I’m risking my freedom by fooling around with her. Not that I think Eden would send me back to prison, but I’m sure it’s written in the law somewhere that a parolee shouldn’t get involved with their parole officer. And I really don’t want to get her in trouble either.
But even knowing all of this, having her here, in my arms, makes it hard to care. To think about anything else but her.