None of that was an excuse for being so careless with my safety and my children’s. I’d been stupid enough to think we were safe here. In Amber. Under the shade of the Sons of Templar MC.
Nothing was missing. I’d left some cash in a porcelain tray on a side table in the living room. It was still there. As were all of the expensive kitchen gadgets that Ranger had bought me and upgraded yearly. Not as gifts, mind you. He was partial to giving jewelry or first editions of my favorite books. Ranger was always a great gift giver. He was observant. Thoughtful. The Kitchen-Aid mixer and the espresso machine were more because he’d wanted to provide. He had wanted to be the father he’d never had. Maybe he had wanted to buy something beautiful to make up for the ugly ways in which we got that money.
It didn’t matter now, did it?
I continued to move through the house, cautiously, moving first to my bedroom to retrieve my gun. Something told me there was no one in the house. The same kind of something that told me someone had been in here in the first place. Instinct. Intuition. Whatever you want to call it.
I checked the kids’ rooms. Nothing out of place. Nothing stolen. Beds sloppily made, because that was one of their weekly chores, and neither of them loved doing them, they did them because they were good kids.
The laundry room was untouched, with piles of clothes that never really seemed to move with two children in the house.
Bathrooms the same.
Maybe I was going crazy. That wouldn’t be out of the question. Everything inside me felt loose. Rattled. Broken. Resentful. Bitter.
Everything that Kace always chased away.
When he last left, self-guilt and confusion washed over me like a tsunami, all mingled with need for him despite still feeling his touch all over my body.
So yes, it could be entirely possible that I was going crazy. But I didn’t think I was. There weren’t many things in the world a woman could trust. A true girlfriend. The words of a good man. The fact that there were many bad men pretending to be good. And her intuition.
It wasn’t something that lied. And I was pretty sure mine wasn’t lying now.
Something creaked behind me. A footstep. A person. They were still here. Damn, I wished my intuition had been wrong this time.
I whirled, gun raised head level. Ranger always taught me to go for the kill. “If you’re at the point you have to point a gun at someone, don’t fuck around trying to wound. You shoot to kill.”
Bex raised her hands, grinning ever so slightly. “I’m only here to raid your baby clothing supply, but if you’re guarding it that fiercely, then I’ll brave that god-awful baby store.”
Horrified, I lowered the gun, turning the safety back on. Holy shit. I was going insane. I’d just pointed a gun at one of my closest friends. Who was a new mother. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Shit, Bex, I’m so sorry.” I ran my hand across the back of my neck, tension now pulsing there.
She waved her hand in dismissal. “No harm, no fowl.” She glanced downward then back up at me. “Why are you walking around the house with a gun?” Bex asked, tilting her head to the side.
I took a deep breath, my heart trying to settle at the familiar face. The safety in it. I surely didn’t feel any safety in myself.
“I thought that someone had been in here, but I think I might just be going insane,” I whispered.
“Babe, if you’re not insane already, then you’re way ahead of the rest of us,” she replied with a grin.
I chuckled with only the faintest hint of hysteria.
“Beyond that, I know you. Don’t think you’d be stalking around your house with a Glock without a reason. If you think someone was in here, then I believe you.” She paused. “Should I make some tea?”
“Tea?” I repeated.
She shrugged. “That’s what bitches offer other bitches in times of crisis. It’s meant to be calming.”
I laughed. “I think that whisky sounds better.”
She grinned. “Me too. How about you put away the gun, and we’ll have a chat over some whisky and cupcakes. Fair warning. I already ate one on the way in here.” She winked and turned to walk toward the kitchen.
I moved slowly to our bedroom, emptying the clip, securing the gun. I was shaken. After a tragedy happens, it usually goes one of two ways. Some consider themselves somewhat immune from a repeat. Having had a huge blow dealt to you once was enough. There was also the belief that lighting didn’t strike twice. A ridiculous kind of confidence. On the flipside, there was the certainty that more bad things could happen because you were living proof that bad things did happen. I was in the camp of the latter, if it wasn’t already obvious.