Page 51 of Bitter House

Several years ago, we had a husband to take care of, and he arrived early, alone, and at the wrong house. Talk about a winner. Said the wife had taken a fall, and he’d be coming to the dinner party alone. I tried to get him to go to Jane’s like we’d planned, but he wasn’t listening. Things got heated, and Cole walked in on us in the middle of the fight. He went and got Edna, and we deescalated things, got him to Jane’s, and everything went as planned from there. If Cole hadn’t come in, if I’d been left in that room alone with him, I might’ve had to kill him there to save us all, something I’ve vowed to never do when the kids are home. I never want them to know anything about this or to put them in any danger if I can avoid it.

When the man looked at Cole, got a good look at his face, I knew I’d do anything if it meant he could never hurt him. I would kill for that child. Have killed for that child.

That was a long time ago. The second time he saved me was just last week, when another winner of a husband arrived and Cole heard him yelling at me. He’s older now, obviously, but still smaller than the man. That thought didn’t seem to cross his mind, though. He charged at the man like a bull and stood in front of me until he chased him off. He walked away like it was nothing, probably didn’t give it a second thought, but he saved me.

Saved Bridget, who was in the house too.

I’m not sure what we’d do without him.

It’s a nice reminder, having him here. Proof there are still good ones left.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

BRIDGET

I look up at Cole, who is working diligently and avoiding my eyes as if he’s being paid to.

“You saved Vera?”

His brow furrows. “I mean, hardly. I told some asshole to go away, that’s it. And the other time I ran and got Mom. Not exactly hero behavior.”

I flip through the book to be sure there’s nothing left, but that’s it. “There’s so much we still don’t know,” I say sadly. “Whoever wrote the letters must’ve thought there was more in her journal.”

“And we still don’t know who that is,” Cole says, setting his screwdriver down. “But we’re about to.” He turns the camera around and makes his way to the door.

“We have to point it toward the gate,” I tell him, remembering. “With the code changed, that’s where they left the last letter.”

I follow and watch as he stands on the porch, scanning the yard. Eventually, he mutters, “That might work.”

Without explanation, he crosses the yard, heading down toward the gate and stopping when he reaches the large tree in the front yard. He uses his drill to screw the camera’s base into the bark of the tree, testing it for stability before he attaches the camera and points it toward the gate.

I always thought Vera was old-fashioned about safety out of personal preference, but now I’m realizing it must’ve been because she could never chance having video proof of who was at her house.

She put her own safety at risk for the women she saved. Even if I never get the logbook, even if I never get to know their names, it still means something. It’s a reason to be proud of her, a reason to look deeper at every interaction we ever had.

He finishes with the camera quickly and turns to face me with a grin, but when he does, I’m standing too close. He nearly runs into me, but he steadies himself with a hand on my waist. Heat erupts under my skin surrounding his touch, as if I’m an icy window and he’s placed a warm palm against it, melting the frost.

“Sorry,” he says, his eyes soft.

“Don’t be,” I tell him, my eyes locked on his. “And thank you. For this and for everything you’ve done for me this week.”

“Don’t mention it.” He still hasn’t taken his hand off my waist. “Bridget, I?—”

“Listen—” I say at the same time.

We laugh. “You go first,” he says.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I hate that you had to learn the truth about your dad this way. And I’m sorry that Vera did what she did. That she took away the chance for you to ever have him in your life, if that’s what you wanted.”

His eyes are serious as he stares at me. “I’m not upset at Vera. She saved my mom. And me, I guess. I wish I could’ve thanked her for that, eventually. It sucks that it happened, yes, but would I want it to have gone any differently? I don’t think so.”

I swallow, and his gaze moves to my neck. Then my mouth.

“Thanks for being here for me.” His thumb circles on my hip. “Even though you hate me.” There’s nothing teasing about his tone; instead, it’s as if he’s tempting me to confirm what we both know.

“I don’t hate you.”

“Oh yeah?” He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, scraping it with his top teeth. “Care to prove it?” Heat swoops through me, pulling somewhere deep in my core.

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