Page 67 of Caught from Behind

Damn.

I woke up a dozen times through the night, memories raking their claws through my mind. I hate that I understand what he’s feeling, hate that we both have dads who can’t be what we need.

And, even though I’d promised Riggs to call him if I couldn’t sleep, I hadn’t reached out and dialed during the fitful night. He needed the rest, needed the quiet, didn’t need to talk me down from the countless dreams turned nightmares that had chased me through the night.

The pain on my mom’s face. The screams. My fingers fumbling to call 9-1-1.

Knox at my side, both of us holding her hands.

The red and white flashing lights.

The feeling of her fingers slipping from mine as the paramedics loaded her on the gurney and into the back of the ambulance.

The stillness in her body when we’d finally been allowed to see her the next morning.

The empty kitchen. The empty master bedroom. The empty nursery. The empty house.

After…

Everything had been so damned empty.

I clench my teeth together and exhale sharply, deliberately pushing those memories away as I start to unlock the salon door.

Then freeze.

Because it’s already unlocked.

Frowning, I turn the handle, seeing the lights are on and Kit is standing at the front desk with red-rimmed eyes. “Honey,” I say, memories immediately the last thing on my mind. “What’s wrong?”

He shakes his head, starts typing frantically at the keyboard. “Nothing,” he says quickly. “I just wanted to come in early and get ahead of my stuff. Lyra is supposed to teach me how to do payroll today.”

I lift my brows. “Is she giving you the pay raise that goes along with doing things like learning how to issue payroll?”

The salon doesn’t have many direct employees—the stylists rent their stations—but we do have Kit and a few girls who take care of stocking supplies, cleaning, collecting dirty towels, and doing washes and blow dries as needed.

And Lyra.

Our absentee owner who loves to offload as much work as possible onto Kit who, as previously established, is a recovering people pleaser.

Recovering is a loose term.

Because, really, he should be the person with the sign: X amount of days since people pleasing.

Where X always equals zero.

Case in point?

He winces at my question and deliberately avoids giving an answer. “By the way,” he says, “your nine o’clock called and canceled overnight. I ran the nonrefundable deposit and asked if your next client wanted to come in early.”

This news doesn’t make me happy.

Not what Kit did—he handled it perfectly.

But I could have slept in.

Or not slept, as it was.

I sigh, don’t bite on the fact that Kit will go to bat for me when it comes to getting paid—but apparently not for himself, even when he does extra work—and I circle back to what drew me to the counter in the first place?—

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