Jeff stepped backward, dropping onto his bed. ‘Wow. That’s awful. Poor Mrs Sokolov. She didn’t mention it in her email and Daisy didn’t mention it when she called just now.’
His mother frowned, confused. ‘Daisy called?’
‘Yes.’ He relayed the call. ‘She says Agent Reynolds can keep us safe.’
His mother sighed. ‘I don’t want to leave the house, but I suppose if that man really wanted to find you, he could. We’re safer with Agent Reynolds. You want to meet with this coordinator?’
Jeff met her tired eyes. ‘I do. She may say that my idea is dumb, but then again, she might not. I need to do this, Mom.’
She nodded once. ‘Then you will. We have two and a half hours. That’s enough time for a good breakfast and for you to iron your white shirt.’
He opened his mouth to protest because it was radio, for heaven’s sake, but she raised her eyebrows. ‘Okay, Mom. One ironed shirt, coming up.’
‘Pancakes and sausage, coming up.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Get moving. Your shirt won’t iron itself.’
Sacramento, California
Tuesday, 18 April, 6.15 A.M.
Mercy watched the sky outside the studio apartment window grow rosy. It was morning, finally. Which was a relief and . . . not. She’d lain awake for hours, feeling safe and . . . not.
Today she’d see Ephraim’s mother. If things went well, they might find out where he was hiding. The worst that could happen was that she wouldn’t help at all. But one thing was for certain. Mercy would come face-to-face with the woman who’d raised the man who’d tortured her for an entire year. The man she’d locked eyes with the day before. The man who was hunting her.
So while she was relieved that the day would finally begin, she was terrified. Because the worst that could happen wasn’t that she’d simply meet Ephraim’s mother and walk away. The worst that could happen was that Ephraim found her, because if he did he’d kill everyone around her.
And that included the man who’d slept with his arms around her all night long. He hadn’t demanded anything. His hold had been frustratingly platonic. Because he knew she wasn’t ready.
Rafe Sokolov was a good man. She’d known they existed. She still believed it. Her experience in Eden hadn’t soured her to the possibility of good in people.
But even though Rafe Sokolov made her feel so damn safe, he scared her, too. Or, at least, what he made her feel scared her. She’d lain there for hours, afraid to move, when all she really wanted was to turn in his arms and let him show her what she’d been missing her whole life.
It wasn’t just sex, although that was a huge part of it. What she really wanted was intimacy. Vulnerability.
Trust.
She trusted Rafe and that was perhaps the most terrifying thing of all. Not because she was afraid he’d betray her. He wasn’t built that way. She’d known it even as she’d sat at his bedside while he recuperated from surgery. He’s a good man.
But if she let him in, then lost him? She wasn’t sure she could handle that.
‘You are thinking so hard that you woke me up,’ he mumbled behind her, kissing her shoulder, covered in her TARDIS pj’s. They’d been a Christmas gift from Rory and Jack-Jack, but the Doctor Who-themed gift tag had been written in Farrah’s pretty handwriting. Because they can’t write, she’d said laughingly.
I’m so lucky. I have friends who love me. So even if this thing with Rafe crashed and burned, she wouldn’t be alone. But it wouldn’t be the same.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘Didn’t mean to wake you.’
Rafe lifted up on his elbow to kiss her temple. ‘You’re shaking, Mercy. What’s wrong?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘We don’t have to go to Santa Rosa. Nobody will be angry if you change your mind about seeing Burton’s mother.’
She swallowed hard. ‘I guess I am transparent.’
‘Maybe a little. But maybe there’s more to it?’ He tightened his arms around her, skirting the line between pain and comfort, but somehow managing to stay on the comfort side while giving her the little jab she needed to break the panic cycle.
She hadn’t even been aware it was happening. Of course it had been, though. She’d been panicking throughout all the hours she’d lain awake. She relaxed then. A little. ‘I guess I’m not used to . . . this,’ she finished, suddenly awkward.
He immediately loosened his hold, but she covered his arms with hers and pulled them back. ‘Don’t go. I mean . . .’ He was quiet behind her, giving her the time and space she needed to put words to her thoughts. ‘I like it, you holding me like this. I’m not used to it, though.’
‘And that scares you.’
There was no judgment in his tone. No hurt or annoyance or condescension. ‘Yes.’
Another kiss to her shoulder. ‘I know why it scares me, but why does it scare you?’
She half turned at that, surprised. ‘It scares you?’
His brown eyes were so serious. ‘Yes, of course it does. I felt something for you the moment I met you, Mercy. Something I hadn’t felt for anyone in years. Not since Bella.’
The woman he’d loved and lost. Loved. The word mocked her, but the voice of her therapist intruded. You are lovable. You deserve love.
The woman had made Mercy repeat it dozens and dozens of times, which hadn’t made her believe it then. But the mantra did resonate in her mind now, and maybe that was the point. To create a kind of muscle memory. Whatever its purpose, it worked now, creating that little bubble of space that gave her a moment to think before habit kicked in to deny the possibility.
He’d loved Bella. He feels something for me.
And he’s scared, too.
‘You lost her,’ Mercy said quietly.
‘I did. And I didn’t think I’d survive it. But I did. I just don’t want to have to survive again and right now this thing between us, whatever it is or will be, is uncertain. If I fall for you and lose you . . .’
I thought I’d lose you, he’d choked out the night before, when he’d let her glimpse his vulnerability.
I get it now. ‘I won’t make myself a target again,’ she said quietly, willing to make the promise.
He shuddered against her, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered. ‘But . . .’
She waited. And waited, but he said nothing more, just pressed tight against her back, his breathing ragged. But what?
Concerned, she looked over her shoulder, the movement making him lift his head to meet her gaze. She didn’t mean to gasp, but the sound emerged before she knew to shove it back down. He looked . . . wrecked. Simply devastated. This, she knew immediately, was vulnerability.