Page 63 of One More Truth
I need to be smarter than I was when I pushed Wilson at the Fourth of July celebrations because he was staring at Jess. Too much is at stake if I step out of line…for Jess and for those who struggle with PTSD and their families.
I cut past the reporter and sprint up the path to Jess’s house.
I reach her front door. COP KILLER glares at me in red paint and turns my blood lava-hot. The offending words have been covered with white paint, but they are still highly visible.
Fuck-damn-fuck.Simone and Zara failed to mention this.
The words on Jess’s door, the lies about her, and the ignorance are the last things she needs. She’s already dealing with enough with the complex PTSD and starting her life over, as well as hoping to see her daughter.
If I find out who did write…
I don’t complete the thought and try to calm my roiling blood. Jess doesn’t need to see me ready to rip off somebody’s head. She needs me to be there for her.
I ring the doorbell. The distant barking from three dogs welcomes me from the other side of the closed door. “Jess, it’s Troy.”
The barking grows louder and closer until the dogs are right behind the door.
The front door clicks open, but the gap between it and the doorjamb doesn’t widen. “Jasper, Bailey, Butterscotch, sit!” Simone commands, her pitch higher and shakier than normal. The gap widens, and her worried expression meets mine.
I slip past the doorway, keeping the gap as narrow as possible to prevent the reporters from seeing inside the house. They have violated Jess’s privacy. No need to hand over anything more to them. I shut the door behind me.
“Where is she?” I ask as Zara walks toward us.
“She’s in the laundry room.” The usual glow in Zara’s brown eyes has dimmed. “She went in there ’cause she needed a moment and hasn’t come out since.”
I walk to the laundry room, my long legs making short work of the distance. I knock on the closed door. “Jess, I’m coming in.”
She doesn’t answer, but a soft thumping can be heard from the other side of the wall.
I turn the doorknob and cautiously push the door open. The laundry room is small, only large enough for the washer and dryer, Bailey’s crate, and the cabinets Lucas and Garrett recently installed with the sink.
Jess is on the floor, her legs stretched in front of her, and she’s gently bouncing the back of her head on the cabinet door. Tears have forged wet trails down her cheeks, but she’s not crying now. She looks lost, she looks pissed, she looks devastated. Her gaze is locked on the opposite wall above the washer and dryer, her eyes narrowed.
I shut the door behind me and lower my ass next to her on the cold tile floor.
She continues bouncing her head against the cabinet.Thump-thump-thump. The movement keeps pace with my heartbeat. A light-blue cushion that’s usually on the living room couch is on the floor beside her.
I slip my hand between her head and the cabinet. “I like your head the way it is. Preferably without any brain damage.”
She slides me a glance that seems more resigned than angry. “They’re still out there, aren’t they?”
“The reporters and protesters?” I nod that they haven’t gone anywhere. “How long have they been there?”
“The protesters—since this morning. But there weren’t anywhere near as many when I got up. Simone had to walk the dogs. I didn’t dare go near all those people.”
I let loose a stream of mental curses, keeping what I’m thinking from my face. Those assholes. They stole Jess’s sense of security—the thing she’s been fighting to reclaim.
I thread my fingers with hers, her hand on her lap.
“The news must have got out on social media,” Jess says, her voice soft, defeated. “People kept coming during the day to join the protesters. And then the reporters showed up.”
“Have you talked to anyone? The reporters or the protesters?”
“Not really. Cora had the nerve to ring the doorbell. I called her selfish and self-absorbed. Nova doesn’t deserve that woman in her life.” She sniffs. “I might have also said it was no wonder her ex cheated on her.”
I laugh, the abrupt noise erupting from deep in my chest.
A wry smile slips onto Jess’s lips, and she shrugs. “Not my finest comeback, I’ll admit.”
