Page 33 of Beckett
The coffeemaker gurgled like it was choking on its own existence. It was just before dawn, and I was up making breakfast in Lark’s kitchen because sleep wasn’t happening. Not after last night.
I cracked another egg into the bowl. Six so far. The rest was a mixture of what food I’d had over in the guest house and what Lark had left here. A package of bacon in the fridge, some bread for toast. There was yogurt, fruit, cheese. Even a half-empty jar of jam.
The frying pan sizzled as bacon hit the heat. I turned it down, remembering Lark’s temperamental stove. She’d taught me its quirks last time I’d house-sat during another conference. Back when my biggest concern had been keeping her plants alive, not finding traumatized women sleeping in equipment sheds.
What the hell had Audra been eating? The image of that nearly empty peanut butter jar wouldn’t leave me alone. Her stomach had growled yesterday during afternoon chores—loudenough that we’d both pretended not to hear it. I’d chalked it up to a missed lunch.
Now I knew better.
My shoulder twinged as I flipped the bacon. Jumping into warrior mode last night had triggered more than just adrenaline. The moment I’d heard those sounds from the shed, my body had gone into combat readiness. Heart rate spiking, muscles coiling, that familiar metallic taste flooding my mouth. Even now, hours later, I could feel the echoes of it thrumming under my skin.
Rodriguez’s voice whispered from that dark corner of my mind where I kept him locked away.You got to save this one, Sarge. You get to make it right.
I shook my head, focusing on the eggs. Scrambled. Easy to eat, easy on an empty stomach. I’d seen too many half-starved people bolt food and make themselves sick. Audra needed calories, but she needed them gentle.
I’d been here all night. The couch I’d attempted to sleep on had been a special kind of torture. Lark’s living room furniture was built for afternoon naps, not six-foot-two frames trying to stand watch. My back would be protesting for days. But leaving hadn’t been an option. What if Audra had had another nightmare? What if she’d tried to bolt in the middle of the night, too proud or too scared to accept help come morning?
What if she ran?
That thought had kept me rigid on that too-short couch, listening for any sound from the bedroom. Once, around three, I’d heard movement. Footsteps padding to the bathroom, water running, the quiet click of a door closing again. She was awake too, wrestling with her own demons in the dark.
Which had just sent me back to that fucking shed. What had she done if she’d needed the bathroom in the middle of the night? Gone outside in the cold? There were all sorts of wild animals she could’ve run into.
I added cheese to the eggs with unnatural aggression, watching it melt into the yellow. Found some hash browns in the freezer and got those going in another pan. There were English muffins that could work for sandwiches if she wanted something portable. I even located a can of corned beef hash in the pantry and wondered if I should use it—it wasn’t gourmet, but calories were calories.
The coffee finished brewing, and I poured myself a cup, black and strong enough to strip paint. The familiar burn centered me, gave me something to focus on besides the questions crowding my mind.
Todd’s sister. Every time I thought it, the reality hit fresh. I’d spent last night trying to reconcile the broken bird who’d shown up at Pawsitive with the girl from Todd’s stories. The pieces fit now—that determined chin, the way she’d powered through chores despite exhaustion, the flashes of humor beneath the fear.
But Todd had been gone eighteen months. What the hell had happened in that time to drive her to this? Financial struggles from his death made sense on the surface, but the fear ran deeper than empty pockets. The way she’d begged me not to call the police. The careful distance she maintained from everyone. The nightmares violent enough to sound like an attack.
Someone had hurt her. Recently. Badly.
The bacon was done, crispy but not burned. I laid it out on paper towels, started more going. I found sausage links too and got those browning. The kitchen smelled like a diner now, warm and welcoming and nothing like the cold that had seeped into that shed overnight.
She’d had nothing for warmth except that useless sleeping bag. The thing might as well have been tissue paper for all the protection it provided. I’d felt it when I’d packed up her things. Thin, cheap, the kind you’d take to a summer music festival,not for sleeping in a Montana shed when temperatures dropped below freezing. Just her, the concrete floor, and whatever body heat she could preserve by curling into a ball.
I’d gone back to the shed after getting her settled. I needed to make sure I hadn’t missed anything, any clue about what had driven her to this point. She’d made that cold, cramped space as livable as possible. How long had she been planning to stay there? How many other sheds, other hidden spaces, had she called home in the past few months?
The hash browns needed flipping. I grabbed the spatula, movements automatic while my mind churned. She’d promised she wasn’t running from the law. I’d decided to believe her—partly because Todd’s sister deserved that much faith, partly because my gut said she was telling the truth.
But that left too many other possibilities, each darker than the last.
Abusive ex was the obvious answer. It would explain the fear, the constant vigilance, the aversion to authority. But something about that didn’t quite fit. The way she moved, the way she watched—it spoke of being hunted, not just hurt. This was more than domestic violence.
“You’re going to burn those sausages.”
I spun, spatula raised like a weapon before I could stop myself. Audra stood in the kitchen doorway, hair mussed from sleep, wearing the same clothes from yesterday. She’d probably slept in them, ready to run at a moment’s notice.
“Sorry.” I lowered the spatula, trying to slow my hammering heart. “Didn’t hear you.”
“Story of my life lately.” She tried for a smile, but it came out wrong. Her eyes tracked the kitchen—the food covering every surface, the plates I’d set out, the sheer volume of breakfast I’d created. “Are we feeding an army?”
I turned back to rescue the sausages. They were a little darker than I’d planned but still edible. “I wasn’t sure what you liked.”
“So you made everything?”
The wonder in her voice nearly broke me. When was the last time someone had cooked for her? When was the last time she’d had a choice beyond peanut butter sandwiches and whatever she could afford from a gas station?
