Page 23 of Unfulfilled Promises
“I want you to be comfortable, and this large crowd may be too much for tonight. We’ll go wherever you want, as long as I can see that beautiful smile again.”
She looked around covertly before admitting, “I think I’d like to go, if you’re really okay with it.”
Kissing the top of her hands, I replied, “I’m more than okay with it. Let’s go.”
I picked up the unicorn while she placed the sauce into the container of churros and followed beside me. I could see her gaze swinging around the parking lot, looking for someone, so I did the same as we got closer to the SUV. After releasing her hand, I opened the door and watched as she crawled inside.
I winked at her, hoping to relax her before I opened the backseat and placed the large toy inside, securing it with a seatbelt then closing the door. As I walked around the back of the vehicle, I tactfully used my phone and scanned the SUV for trackers or listening devices, and when I got an all-clear notification, I opened the driver’s door and got inside.
Regan was holding the dessert, and her eyes were scanning back and forth across the full parking lot as I cranked the vehicle and looked over at her. “Seatbelt, darlin’.”
She placed the food onto her lap and clicked her seatbelt around her waist as I put the vehicle into reverse and backed out of the space. Hitting a switch on the side of the steering wheel, I activated the cameras surrounding the car, just in case someone followed us home, then I’d have their vehicle on camera to investigate. Not that I was expecting that, but something about the way she’s acting seemed like she was waiting for someone to jump out and take her again.
And if anyone thought they could lay one hand on Regan and live, they were mistaken. Gravely mistaken. Now that I knew some of what her early life was like, and listening to her admit without admitting that Steve had abused her and she remained silent all these years was a testament to her ability to hide secrets and shame.
I needed to get her to trust me enough to tell me who took her and where they kept her a few years ago. I needed to know if there was still a threat to Regan or anyone related to our dysfunctional family.
“Would you tell me what made you so scared back there?” I asked when I turned the vehicle onto the interstate, headed to my house.
She pinched her lips and looked out the window as she quietly admitted, “I thought I saw someone I used to know, but I was probably mistaken.”
“Who do you think it was?”
“Someone I never want to see again,” she answered vaguely, and I could see her walls building back up higher and thicker than before.
I needed to keep her off-kilter, so I decided at that very moment to use basic questioning that could bite me in the ass. But if it gave Regan the peace she so desperately deserved, then I would have to deal with the fallout later.
“What’s your favorite dessert to cook?” I asked her, and she turned to me with a smile.
“I love to make pound cakes, cookies, pies. Hell, anything sweet and full of carbs and I’m all about it,” Regan replied, and I knew I was going to hell for this conversation.
“How about pasta? Can you make homemade pasta?”
“I’ve never tried it, but I’m sure I could,” she answered as I got off the interstate at my exit.
Picking up my phone, I sent a quick text to mine, Caldwell and Bookers group chat.
Me: Where are you?”
Booker answered quickly.
Booker:At Rhys’s still. We wanted to give you the house if needed, so we’re bunking at the guard house tonight.
Me:Thanks.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket as the light turned green, I reached over and took her hand into mine as I asked another question. “When you and Elsa first met, what made you bond?”
Her eyes cast down for a moment before she answered. “She had the family I wanted, and after going home with her one weekend and helping her mother cook, she adopted me. Hell, they all adopted me, and Elsa became the sister I never had. Until Hannah.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to her. Have . . . have you spoken or seen her parents since you’ve been home?”
“I went to the funeral, and they spoke to me, but it . . . after I came home, I didn’t speak for close to a year.”
“Can I ask why? And feel free to not respond or tell me to go to hell,” I offered, and she pushed a smile onto her face before exhaling deeply.
“When I was . . . away, some people wanted me to tell them things that I refused to divulge, so I chose to not speak. And when I came home, everyone had questions, but I chose to stay silent. Eventually, everyone stopped asking.”
“Would you like to see them sometime?”
