Page 71 of 4th Silence
“Tiffany can rest easy this Christmas,” Meg says.
JJ starts the vehicle and turns up the heat. I groan as it rolls over me. Meg agrees to walk him and one of the officers through the house, tunnel, and cottage to explain what happened. I lay down on the seat with my blanket and drift off.
Later, someone pulls on my toes to wake me. I shoot up to find JJ peering at me from the open door. He hands me my shoes, purse, and coat. “Time to give your statement.” An officer hovers behind him. “Then I’m taking you to the hospital.”
I yawn and wiggle my toes. They ache, but they all work. I cram my feet into my pumps, grimacing. “No hospital. Statement, and then I’m going home. I need a vacation.”
Meg has left with Mom. After I’ve given the officer my account of what happened, I head for my car.
JJ stops me. “One of the officers will drive it to your place.” He nudges me back into his SUV. “I’m driving you home. We need to talk.”
20
Meg
* * *
“Here’s one,” Jerome says from his spot beside me on his battered sofa. “Two bedrooms. Decent neighborhood.”
It’s Christmas Eve, and we’re enjoying some quiet time together before my family’s big holiday feast tomorrow. Typically, I look forward to Christmas Day, but this year—with all the energy spent on solving Tiffany’s case, Mom’s drama, and Charlie heartbroken over JJ— I’m not sure what I have left in the tank.
Being an empath, I suck up every ounce of my family’s energy. And, right now, the energy isn’t good.
At all.
So, yes, I’m savoring my time on Jerome’s couch.
We’re killing time before we watch the original A Christmas Carol. I love that movie. It gives me a sense of the simplicity before technology hijacked everything.
While we wait, Jerome is scouring real estate rental websites. He’s been at this for days and has come up with zilch.
Well, that’s not altogether true. He’s found options I’ve nixed for at least a dozen reasons. Too small, too loud, too isolated.
He holds his phone up. Onscreen is a photo of a brick apartment building. Brick? And no porch. No outdoor fireplace to curl up beside on a fall night.
Nooooo.
I shift my gaze from the screen to him. “I know you’ve been working hard on this, and I keep saying no.”
“You do,” he says, the words carrying zero heat. “I know it has to be the right setup.”
Between us, we need at least one art studio. Thus, a two-bedroom. Even then, we’d need storage space for supplies and any extra items we bring from our own homes.
We need space. And what he’s finding in our price range doesn’t provide that.
“I have an idea,” I say. “I know we said we wanted to start fresh somewhere. A place we could make our own.”
“I hear a ‘but’ coming.”
I grin and playfully tweak his nose. “So smart!”
He snorts, and we share a laugh that makes me thankful, once again, I have this man in my life.
I almost let him go. All because I’m terrified of losing him.
Ironic, is all I can think.
“What if,” I say, “you moved into my duplex? The mortgage payment is manageable, and the house is bigger than anything you’ve looked at. The art studio is already set up, and there’s still a third bedroom. I know it’s next door to Charlie, but she’s not a problem. We already respect the boundaries. If your car—or JJ’s—is in the driveway, we don’t bother each other.”
