Page 23 of Clara's Secure Hideaway

The tension in his head built but a tiny pang of relief loosened his grip on the wheel.

Clara had texted him.

He wasn’t an idiot. There was nothing more to the message than showing him something related to her case. But she’d trusted him enough to go directly to him, knowing he’d do whatever possible to help. That type of trust was hard earned with a woman like Clara.

He didn’t take that responsibility lightly.

Motoring past the downtown streets and blaring lamplights, the vivid purples and dark blues of twilight took center stage. The outline of the mountains in the distance appeared above the landscape, no more than a line of jagged peaks looming on the horizon.

He loved his town, loved the quiet charm and bustle of people as they created the world filled with mostly goodness. But he craved space. Craved privacy to shed the cloak of a public figure and just be himself. No eyes, no expectations, no judgement.

His small cabin outside of town gave him all those things, and as he approached his safe haven, he drew in a deep breath. Time to unwind, grab a quick meal, then get his hands dirty. Hopefully he’d have Clara’s car working and ready to go before dusk melted into complete darkness.

Pulling into his driveway, his gaze landed on the back of Clara’s car and rage erased all his plans for the evening.

The glass on her back window was smashed. Pellets of glass sparkled against the rusted blue paint and sprinkled the ground like confetti.

* * *

Clara waiteduntil both the kids were asleep—each now content with the stuffy she’d brought from home—then tiptoed out of the room. She’d made sure to let them know before they drifted off that she planned to venture downstairs, but she carried a baby monitor with her in case one of them woke and was too afraid to remember.

She hated wishing away time with her children, but she’d kept her eye on the clock all evening. Speaking about Mitch in front of the kids wasn’t an option. Dean had been nice enough to agree to come to the shelter later in the evening and her heart hadn’t stopped pounding since she’d returned with Mitch’s laptop.

Since she’d texted Heath and let him know Mitch had followed her.

A quick glance at her phone as she hurried down the stairs showed he still hadn’t responded. Disappointment pressed on her lungs, and she tried to shake it off. She’d been silly to send the message and should just be thankful he’d chosen to ignore it. For months she’d told herself he was only a friendly deputy she ran into at work. That didn’t change now, even if the time they’d spent together the last twenty-four hours complicated the feelings she’d convinced herself weren’t real.

None of that mattered now.

Chatter led her into the large kitchen. Elsie and Dean sat at one side of the table with Mrs. Collins at the head. A bottle of white wine and a wine glass waited in front of an empty seat. Without waiting to be asked, she slid the computer to Dean then poured herself some wine.

Mrs. Collins and Elsie lifted their own glasses.

No cheers were made, no words of positivity or manifestation thrown into the world. Just three women offering silent support and companionship.

Dean gave a nod of greeting. “Nice to see you, Clara. Wish it was under different circumstances, but I hope I can help give you what you need.”

“I appreciate you trying.”

Dean flipped open the lid. “It’s locked. Any idea what his password is?”

She huffed out a humorless laugh. “That would mean we had a somewhat normal marriage where he actually shared things with me.”

Dean grimaced. “Sorry. Any shots in the dark?”

She rattled off his birthday, as well as hers and the children’s. When that didn’t work, she tossed out the date of their anniversary.

Nothing.

Needing to think, she sipped her wine. The cool, crisp notes of apple and pear erupted on her tongue. “He’s as far from sentimental as you can get. I can’t think of one thing on this planet he cares about more than himself.”

Elsie ran her fingertip along the top of her glass, lips quirked to the side. “Any pets from his childhood he was fond of? Is he close with his parents or a sibling? A friend who meant a lot to him?”

Clara shook her head. “Nothing. He’d be one to choose something that was so ridiculous he’d assume no one would ever guess it but would make him laugh and feel superior every time he typed it.”

Mrs. Collins grabbed her hand from across the table. “Was there a name he liked to call you?”

Memories of all the insults Mitch hurled at her came crashing back. The names didn’t hurt as bad as his fists, but each one had brought its own set of pain—its own shame and guilt. Her mouth went dry, and she took another sip so she could swallow past the ball of cotton in her throat. “He has a sharp tongue. Always coming up with names he imagined worse or more hurtful. But the one I hated most has always been dumb bitch.”

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