Page 47 of Snowed In

I looked around. “Where’s the radio?”

He pointed to a tiny, ancient-looking box on top of the refrigerator. He grabbed it by the handle, then plugged it in and set it on the table between us. I watched as he extended and manipulated the antenna, finally landing on a fuzzy station out of San Angelo.

“Looks like the worst of it will be over by midnight or so, folks. All major highways in the Texas Hill Country will remain closed at least until noon, and local law enforcement are asking people to stay off the road except in emergencies. But get this, Dana,” the weatherman said to the DJ. “The high on Tuesday will be sixty-five.”

“You know what they say about Texas weather, George.”

Rafferty snapped off the radio. “Hopefully by tomorrow morning we’ll be able to get you in touch with the Rangers. In the meantime, I don’t mind having a little fun with you. Provided you stop trying to stab me.”

“I make no promises. Though I might need some Advil or something before we go after it again,” I said, stretching my back.

“Shit, you should’ve said something sooner.” He leaned in with a concerned expression, cupping my face. “I think I have some 800-milligram ibuprofen from the time I strained my back. Gimme a sec.”

I sucked in a breath at the sweet intimacy of the gesture and nodded. He got up and went to the bathroom, returning seconds later with the pill and a glass of water.

“Sorry I didn’t offer this to you last night,” he said, handing them to me.

“That’s okay. We were occupied.”

After swallowing the pill and downing the water, I asked, “Is there anything else to do here?”

Rafferty grimaced. “I’d planned on drinking, but I don’t think my system can handle any more vodka.”

I laughed as he scratched his chin. A few moments later, his eyes twinkled in amusement.

“How does a round of Rummikub sound?”

My brows met in the middle. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Then you are in for a treat.”

He was laughing when he said it, so I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or not. He pulled the game box—frayed at the corners and held together by yellowing Scotch tap—from an upper cabinet and displayed it to me like a slightly deranged game show host. As he set out the trays and numbered tiles, he explained that he’d spent many summer afternoons divided between swimming in the lake and playing Rummikub with his grandparents.

The game itself was simple to learn and surprisingly addictive. It also made us chatty. Rafferty told me that his mom had him young and that he’d been raised by his grandparents. Even though they were much older than your average parents, they’d always been active in his life, supporting him in everything from his sexuality to his career. Both had hated his husband, which made me laugh.

I wondered if he’d regret telling me so much about his personal life, but he seemed at peace with what he was saying. I was surprised to hear that ever since his grandparents died, he’d wondered if he was truly happy with his life. He explained that was why he’d intended to spend the holiday drunk. He wanted to figure things out.

I knew that feeling intimately. Having been a criminal for as long as I could remember, I had no idea what to do with the new life I’d been given.

Rafferty even spoke about the way he and his ex-husband were so hot in the beginning, but that they had been better off as an idea than an actual couple. Given that Rafferty was straight up disrespectful in bed, I could see how a fancy lawyer could forget about the reality of his life.

Thankfully, I was under no delusions as to what this little bubble of time meant. As soon as the snow melted, the bubble would pop, and we’d be right back in our old roles of cop and convict. In a way, though, I was glad I’d gotten to know the man. The hatred I’d carried for him had been heavy and impossible to maintain from the second I was in his care.

Rafferty wasn’t the only one oversharing, though. I told him my favorite memory—a fishing trip with Kyler off the coast of Isla Mujeres. I admitted how much it’d hurt when everyone, save for my cousin, had turned their backs on me after my arrest. I also confessed that I wasn’t quite the stone-cold killer that the courts had made me out to be. I was surprised when he seemed to already know that.

My father had put a gun in my hand at the age of sixteen and said I had to start earning my keep. I’d thrown up the first time I’d killed a man, and after that I made sure that the only people I took out were very, very bad. On the rare occasion my father had wanted me to take out somebody who was genuinely good, I had done what I could to either fuck it up, covertly warn the person, or in one case, directly tell them to disappear.

After nearly a year’s worth of time to think in my prison cell, I didn’t hesitate when I was given the opportunity to turn state’s evidence.

The one thing I didn’t share with Rafferty was that I didn’t know what I was going to do after this, but it might involve stealing his truck. I’d been promised a new life, a new identity, but never once had I felt safe. I hadn’t ever been able to shake the sense that my protection had been compromised in some way. When we were attacked on the road, I knew that I couldn’t trust the Rangers to protect me from my family.

“Can you tell me more about what happened yesterday?” he asked as we shuffled the tiles in the middle of the table.

“What do you want to know?”

“Do you think they knew where the safe house was?”

“We were only a few minutes away from our location when they ran us off the road, so...yeah.”

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