Page 233 of Tell Me Something True

Even if his bitch of an inner voice kept telling him otherwise. That she was lying hurt in a ditch or crumpled at the bottom of the too narrow, too steep steps of her apartment or was bound and gagged in the back of a van.

Fucking anxiety. Always producing worst case scenarios.

Rationally, he knew damn well that the chances of any of his fears coming true were slim to none.

Too bad rationality had nothing on intrusive thoughts.

They just kept right on coming.

Fingers tingling, he shoved his phone into his front pocket, then hooked his forefingers in his ears and lightly tugged down. It was another relaxation technique Tabitha had taught him. He wasn’t sure how it worked—something about the vagus nerve—just that it did.

Thank fuck.

Closing his eyes, he took three deep breaths. His chest loosened. His breathing calmed. That cold, prickly sensation at the nape of his neck subsided.

So much for that bullshit he’d told Tabitha last night about him not having as many anxiety attacks recently.

He lowered his arms. Wrapped his fingers around the edge of the marble vanity, letting his head hang.

He just wanted to feel better.

He just wanted to be okay.

A knock on the door had him jerking upright.

“I’m ordering pizza,” Urban said. “You eating with us?”

He cleared his throat. “Sounds good.” Opening the door, he stuck his head out into the hallway to see Urban walking away. “No olives!”

Urban kept right on walking, not even glancing back as he lifted a hand in either an acknowledgement of Miles’s words or a silent fuck off, I like olives and if you don’t, you can pick them off.

With Urban, you never knew.

Miles pulled his phone out again.

Miles: Eating pizza at Urban’s. Would love to have you join us.

He sent the message, tucked his phone away, washed and dried his hands, then headed toward the kitchen.

Considered it a personal victory that he was able to move on with his life. That he wasn’t staring at the screen, hoping to see the bubbles indicating she was texting him back.

Maybe he could conquer this thing after all.

In the kitchen, he opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Labatt’s. Turned his head and held the bottle up to Urban who was on the phone ordering their dinner—even though they’d told him a hundred times he could just order online—who nodded.

After grabbing a second bottle, Miles closed the door with his hip, set his brother’s beer on the kitchen island, then opened his and took a long drink. What happened in the bathroom wasn’t backsliding. He’d just had a shitty day. One that would take a toll on anyone.

He’d gotten the call about Walsh during his shift last night after he’d left Tabitha’s. After Walsh’s coworkers at the bar and DiFonzio’s claimed not to know his whereabouts, Miles had decided to check with the one person he hoped like hell Walsh had stayed away from.

And discovered the kid’s truck two blocks from here.

Still, he held out hope it was just a coincidence. Until Urban told him Verity was up in her room, acting strange, and that her door was locked.

Miles knew damn well what they were going to find.

Knowing it still hadn’t prepared him for a shirtless Walsh opening his sister’s bedroom door, then standing in front of the unmade bed smirking, Verity behind him in her pajamas with a serious case of bedhead.

Taking another drink, he leaned his hip against the center island, his anxiety amping up. He checked his phone.

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