Page 10 of Protected from Malice
Her little ranch could be safer. I’d prefer the yard to be fenced in rather than just surrounded by a border of trees that anyone could hide in. The front door seems like it’s well lit, at least from the photos, but the sliding patio doors in the back would be far too easy to break into, security camera or not.
But once I’m there, I can take care of those things. Install alarms on the patio doors and all the windows. Add some more cameras around the garage and the back of the house. And while I doubt I’ll have time to put up a fence, I can string up a seriesof motion detectors around the perimeter. Call up some fence installation companies and wrangle a good deal out of them.
Dammit, I should have come sooner and done this already.
Why didn’t I? In the two-plus years since Indy’s injury, Eden’s always been the one flying out to DC to see him. Probably insisting she’s fine any time he asks, assuring him that her house is safe, that she’s happy, that he has nothing to worry about.
Pre-amputation Indy would have wanted to see for himself. But my friend hasn’t been the same since his career-ending injury, and aside from the wedding he reluctantly attended a few months ago in Texas, he’s been isolating himself ever since.
Shit. I should have come here. Checked on Eden in person instead of just calling or texting.
And if seeing her alone brought up feelings I’d rather not think about, I should have been man enough to deal with it. I should have been the protector I promised Indy I’d be in those terrible minutes when we weren’t sure if he’d survive. When he was laying there, trapped by rubble, fucking bleeding all over, and he begged me to take care of his sister if he didn’t make it.
Dammit.
Guilt swells up inside me, choking my breath.
Ten minutes—no, more like seven, now—is too long to wait before talking to her.
As I tell my phone to call Eden, I rationalize away the urgency.
It’ll be better if I let her know I’m almost there, rather than showing up at her doorstep and possibly startling her. Yes, I texted when I landed in Portland, but I never gave her a specific time I’d arrive. So it’s really the polite thing to do.
Even as I’m thinking it, a derisive laugh bursts out.
Me? Worried about manners?
Not that I’m rude, exactly. Not unless someone deserves it. But I’ve always been more of the cut-straight-to-the-point kind of person.
I prefer action to words. Words can be misinterpreted. Words can be deliberately left out, so you don’t even know the person you care about is in trouble until?—
“Rafe?”
The moment I hear Eden’s voice, I make a quick assessment.
Does she sound scared? No.
Upset? Not particularly.
Eager to see me?
Wait. Where did that last part come from?
Dragging my mind back to more pressing matters, I say, “Hey, Brain. Just wanted to let you know I’m almost to your house. Maybe—” I glance at the little map on the dash again. “Five minutes. Unless I get stuck behind a granny driving ten miles an hour.”
A little giggle carries across the line, loosening one of the bands that’s been wrapped around it since last night. “Are you still calling me that?”
My lips curve up in response. “Well, youarethe smartest person I know. And don’t think I forgot what your IQ is. So I should really call you Genius, if you want to get technical about it.”
Eden huffs, but I can practically hear her smiling. “I don’t knowwhyIndy thought you guys would want to know what the IQ test I took when I was ten years old said.”
Slowing as I come to a stop sign, I reply, “Because he was proud of you. Heisproud of you.”
Silence hangs.
Shit.
Maybe now isn’t the best time to bring up old memories. Because I remember that day in vivid detail. It was my firstThanksgiving after my mom passed away, so Indy invited me to celebrate with his family. We all met up at Indy and Eden’s mother’s place in Connecticut, and once dinner was over, their mom decided to break out their old school report cards and photos.
