Page 19 of Lace 'em Up

Because that fucker has his hands on her.

She cries out again and the red in my vision goes black. I barely recognize that I’m moving, reaching for the fucker, gripping his shoulder hard enough that he cries out. I jerk him back, send him flying across the room, skidding along the floor, crashing into the wall.

Rory’s got tears streaking down her cheeks and she’s clutching her hand to her chest, but I don’t see any obvious injuries to her—any new ones anyway.

“Stay there,” I order, turning around and intending to deal with the motherfucker that’s her ex.

Only…he’s not there.

There’s a dent in the Sheetrock where the fucker hit it.

But there’s no sign of Phillip.

Fucking hell.

I glance back at Rory. “Stay there, princess, yeah?”

She gives a shaky nod and I move through the bedroom, checking the space for any sign of the asshole, and when I don’t find any, I cross into the hall, clearing each of the rooms as I move along it and down the stairs. I’m on full alert for the bastard to jump out at any point, to try to sneak attack me like the coward he is.

The front door is open, but I don’t trust it as I systematically search through the space, checking closets and each room.

But there’s no sign of the fucker, and when I finally look through that open front door, I see why.

Phillip’s car is gone.

I exhale, grind my teeth together, and carefully close the door, secure the lock.

And then I’m climbing the stairs again, crossing that hall, moving into the bedroom.

Finding Rory, still on the floor, still with her arm curled against her chest.

But it’s not, I realize now, because it’s hurt—or I don’t think so anyway. Because she’s holding something close, protecting it against her body.

“Ror?” I ask carefully, moving slowly toward her, crouching down to meet her eyes.

“I’m fine,” she whispers.

“Did he hurt you?”

A shake of her head. “No,” she whispers then adds before I can press her about the cry of distress I heard when I came into the house, “He didn’t get the chance to before you were here. He just”—her eyes flick down—“tried to take it.” A beat. “Take them.”

I follow her gaze, see that she’s clutching a little box like it’s her most precious belonging. It’s battered and the corners worn, the paint chipped, the little brass hinges on the side I can see tarnished.

“Take what?” I ask.

“My box,” she whispered. “And my bracelet.” She holds up her wrist, showing me a cheap-looking bracelet with painted wooden charms hanging from it. “It’s all I have left of him. My dad—” Her throat works. “He’d buy me a new charm for it every time he had to take a business trip. Until…” Her voice cracks.

I hold my breath.

Brace.

“…until he didn’t come back.”

Fuck.

I want to tuck her close, hold her tight, let her cry as she gives me the full story.

But now’s not the time.

---