Page 41 of Finding Home with You

I scrub a hand down my face, my eyes closing in exhaustion as I try to work out a way I can quietly and safely escort Erin out of the city and possibly the country until all of this blows over. I know that’s not going to happen though. As much as I’d like to keep her out of all of this, that subpoena has made that all but impossible. The assistant DA told me as much when I called him to see if I could somehow get her out of testifying.

I walk around to my chair; grabbing my jacket because I know there’s not a chance in hell we can continue this conversation here. There’s already a high probability one or both of us is going to lose our shit in a minute, and as much as I don’t want the entire office to bear witness to that, it’s the inevitable nakedness that always follows that I really don’t need them to see.

“Let’s go,” I say, grabbing her arm as I steer her out of my office.

“Ryan,” she says in a way that makes me stop.

“What?” I ask, frustrated as I turn to look at her.

Erin swallows hard, glancing away quickly before turning back to me. “He knew about you, about us,” she says, a nervous edge to her voice.

I stare down at her, see the sadness and regret in her eyes now at everything this is doing to us. “What exactly did he say?” I ask.

She pulls her arm from my grip, sliding her hand into mine instead, twisting our fingers together. “He asked why my loyalty was with the detective,” she whispers. “Before laughing about how my boyfriend, meaning you,” she adds as though I need the clarification, “why he didn’t tell me he’d been to visit.”

“Shit,” I mumble, shaking my head as I pull her with me and we walk out of my office.

Joe shoots me a look as we pass by his desk, but I shake my head, letting him know that drink won’t be happening tonight. Outside, we head toward my car, but as we get closer, I notice the front tire is flat. “Fuck,” I groan, wondering if this day could possibly get any worse. Then I notice the back tire is also flat and when I walk around I see the other two are the same.

“What’s happened?” Erin asks, standing next to me.

I shake my head in confusion even as I see the sheet of paper flapping under the wiper blade. Pulling it out, I stuff it in my pocket, before turning toward her. “Where’s your car?”

“On the street,” she says, gesturing.

“Give me your keys,” I demand and Erin hands them over without saying anything. We walk toward her car and as we climb in I ask, “Finn knows you’re here?” Erin shakes her head. “Text him you’re with me and that you’re staying the night. We can both head up tomorrow.”

Erin complies without argument and as she types out a message, I navigate the evening traffic in her small hatchback toward my place. Although it’s a short trip, the piece of paper burns a hole in my pocket the whole way home. I know this isn’t an accident, not by a long shot. As unlikely as four flat tires is, it’s damn near impossible for four slashed tires to be a fucking accident.

We eventually pull into my condo, both of us silently getting out of the car. I head to my mailbox, knowing I’ve barely been home the past week to empty it. It’s filled with junk mail and bills, which I carry as we head upstairs.

Inside, Erin stops, turns toward me. “I’m going to go take a shower,” she says quietly.

I nod, stepping closer to her and pressing a quick kiss to her lips. “I’ll be there in a sec,” I say, wishing both of us could just step into that shower and wash this entire saga away.

She nods before walking toward my bathroom.

The second the shower starts running, I pull the note from my pocket. Unfolding it, my blood boils the second I see what’s written there.

So now we know where you work.

The words are typed and I’d put money on the paper being clean of prints. Shoving it back into my pocket, I throw the bills on the counter, reaching for the scotch in a bid to calm down before I have to walk in and face Erin. But as I do, a large yellow envelope in amongst the white ones catches my eye. It’s addressed to me, but not in a way that suggests it’s been delivered through the post.

I grab it, my hand shaking as I carefully open it and pull the contents out. It’s a single black and white photo of me; walking up the stairs to my condo, phone at my ear and a smile on my face. It’s not dated, but at a guess, I’d say it’s recent, probably as recent as two weeks ago.

I flip it over and see the note, hand written this time, on the back.

And where you live.

“Fuck,” I grit between clenched teeth, shoving the photo back inside the envelope.

Walking quickly into the bedroom, I yank open the top drawer of the side table, placing the note from my car and the envelope from the mail inside. Slamming it shut, I turn and walk back to the kitchen, picking up the bottle of scotch and taking a long pull straight from the bottle.

Yeah, this day just got a whole lot worse.

Chapter Sixteen

Erin

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