Page 17 of Mountain Hero

When the counselor stopped in right after breakfast, which seems like poor planning—asking a person to talk about their traumatic experiences while still trying to digest runny eggs and over-buttered toast—it definitely wasn’t a pleasant visit.

Officer Nelson came back, and she was the closest to friendly of anyone I’ve seen. At first, her visit was almost nice. She asked me how I was feeling and if I needed anything and even offered to go by my house to pick up some clothes for me. I was actually feeling pretty hopeful until she gave me the news I’d been dreading.

Thomas is still out there. Hiding. Probably staying with one of his creeptastic friends while he plots some sort of brutal punishment for me.

Then she asked me for more details about living in Thomas’s house, all about the locks and security cameras and the punishments he gave me. She wanted to know if I’d seen anything else illegal going on, aside from the kidnapping and assault I already accused him of.

Yes, there was other stuff. While I was there, I saw drug deals and stolen wallets and overheard conversations about things I didn’t want know about, like the guy Thomas was paid to beat up and the money he fleeced from a little eighty-year-old woman who hired him to replace her gutters.

As I went through it all, I felt sicker and sicker. Not only must Thomas be incredibly angry that I interfered in the robbery and escaped, but I know things he definitely doesn’t want the police hearing about.

If he catches me, I’m not so sure he’ll stop at just hurting me this time. I’m afraid he’ll actually kill me.

So, yeah. This morning hasn’t been the best. And that’s not even taking into account my concussion and the headache, dizziness, and nausea that comes with it.

I want to cling to the relief of being out of that house, but it’s hard when the walls feel like they’re closing in on me. It’s hard when the fear and loneliness crash into me in breath-stealing waves.

It’s not even safe for Aunt Linette to come here. She wanted to, but I convinced her it would be safer if she stayed in New Mexico. And it’s true. She’s much safer there. But it doesn’t make me feel any less alone.

Based on my crummy morning so far, when I see Enzo standing in the hospital room doorway, my expectations are pretty low.

In the sewers, really.

He doesn’t look angry, but how could he not be? Like Officer Nelson told me, while she believes my story, I’m still the one who was found at the scene of the crime. Until there’s more evidence to clear me—oh, please, let them find something—I’m a suspect.

A potential criminal.

Just because he was nice to me last night doesn’t mean he actually believed me. It just means Enzo’s the kind of man who would be kind to anyone who’s hurt. It probably has to do with his time in the Army, being a protector and all, and nothing to do with his feelings about me.

“Winter?” He hesitates in the doorway, his handsome features tight with concern. “Should I come back later?”

For a moment, I consider telling him I’m not feeling well and putting him off. I could avoid whatever uncomfortable questions he’s going to ask. I wouldn’t have to look at this man I’ve spent more time thinking about than I’d like to admit, feeling ashamed and guilty and afraid he hates me.

But I owe him answers, so I swallow hard and say, “No, it’s okay. Come in.”

As he comes into the room, I fight the urge to fix my hair, or smooth down the hospital gown I know is all messed up and wrinkled, or do literally anything to look better than I do right now.

I looked in the mirror when I used the bathroom this morning, and it’s not a pleasant sight. My skin is almost translucent except for the dark shadows under my eyes and the red and purple bruise on my forehead. Even my freckles are pale and faded—no surprise there since I haven’t been outside in months.

And my hair… ugh. I used to use hair oils and deep conditioning treatments to keep it shiny, but now it’s dull and dry and the ends are all ragged.

The last time I saw Enzo, I was wearing my favorite jeans that make my butt look good and a top that matches the color of my eyes. I’d spent a few days out in my yard, so I had a hint of color in my cheeks and some natural copper highlights in my chestnut hair.

And he was so handsome—his blue-gray eyes crinkling up as he smiled at me, a brush of stubble accenting his strong jaw, hair slightly tousled in a careless way, like he’d been running his hand through it. My eyes kept drifting to his exposed forearms, tanned and lightly dusted with bronze hair, muscles flexing as he leaned across the counter to talk to me.

It wasn’t that I’d gone there trying to impress him, but the brief look of appreciation he gave me felt really nice.

But it shouldn’t matter what I look like. Enzo’s not here to ask me out on a date. He’s here to ask me questions about my part in the robbery.

Once he gets to the side of my bed, his gaze sweeps across my forehead and his lips thin. His jaw gets tight. A tiny line etches into his forehead.

“How are you feeling?” His hand twitches toward me before he shoves it in his pocket. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

Why does he have to be so polite? So concerned? So good looking?

Why does he have to be so tall and muscly, his blue T-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, and why do I feel this instinctive desire to burrow into his chest and let him protect me from everything?

It’s the concussion, clearly. How Enzo looks is the last thing I should be concerned about.

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