Page 47 of What's Left of Us

“But—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I repeat, cutting her off from arguing. I don’t like the idea of her being alone with no way to get ahold of anybody. “God forbid something happens, you’ll need to be able to call for help. Okay?”

Her eyes go to the floor.

I tilt her chin up with my finger. “Don’t. We’ll get this figured out. Until then, you can pick something out at the store.”

She swallows, her eyes saddening. “I’m sorry.”

My brows pinch. “For what?”

“For this.” She gestures around us. “I didn’t expect any of this. That’s not why I came home with you that night. If I’d known it would lead to this, I might not have bothered. I would have…Ishouldhave stayed home. Or I should have tried getting Millie to come get me at the bar. Something. Now you’re buying me groceries and a phone, and it’s…a lot. It’s too much.”

If she hadn’t gone out, she’d either still be under her father’s hand or somebody else’s. The thought of her engaged makes my blood boil, and I barely know this girl. “Better me than somebody else,” I tell her, hating how my jaw tics at the thought of another man touching her. “And, for the record, I like being able to help you. And I especially like coming home to you wearing my clothes and smelling like my soap. If the circumstances were different, I’d show you exactly what that does to me. But I won’t. I’ll be a gentleman. For now.”

Her chest rises and falls slowly.

“Get dressed, and we’ll go to the store.”

She stares at me for the longest time, then takes me by surprise and wraps her arms around my waist, her pillowy breasts pressing against my chest. “Thank you.”

My heart does a little flip, but I try pushing away the feeling as I brush my lips against the top of her head. “You don’t have to thank me, Georgia. That’s what…friends do.”

“Friends?” she asks.

“It sounds better than temporary roommates,” I point out, resting my chin against the crown of her skull.

She pulls back, studying me. “Friends.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lincoln / Present

Nobody but MattConklin knew the truth about my rocky relationship with Georgia. I’d trusted him fully with the details I couldn’t even tell my family or else they might have talked me out of the inevitable choice I made.

I wish I could have gone back and confided in my father, telling him every reason I asked Georgia the question I thought I’d only ever ask one woman in my lifetime. But I didn’t. I lied to them and to most of my coworkers, and I got Conklin killed because of it.

It keeps me up at night, waking me from nightmares that are nothing more than memories stitched together like a film that replays in my mind. Every night, it’s the same one.

I see him getting out of his patrol car.

I hear him approaching the front door.

Then I hear the gunshots.

One.

After.

Another.

After another.

After another.

It happens in slow motion, just like it did that day. When the first shot rang out, I couldn’t get out of the unmarked patrol car fast enough. No matter how quickly I propelled myself toward the front of the house where Matt Conklin was serving the arrest warrant, it wasn’t fast enough.

The drill times I beat in the military, and the praise I’d gotten for my physical conditioning in the academy didn’t help me when it mattered most. By the time I’d gotten to Conklin, it was too late. He’d fallen, and the next two bullets had found me as I dragged him out of range.

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