Page 24 of Songbird
Finn retrieves a laptop from atop a stack of books in the living room, then sets it up on the dining table. I let myself be soothed by his presence, watching him for a while as he taps at the keyboard. He does a good impression of pretending he doesn’t have an audience, and soon I let my gaze wander to the window instead.
Outside, the sky is clear and blue beyond the redwoods, and something occurs to me with sudden clarity. For the first time since I was child, I’m not only invisible, but someone I trust is willing to carry my worries so I don’t have to. Something precious breaks open in my chest, and I’m flooded with emotion. Relief. Release. Peace. My fingers twitch to strum a note on my six-string or spend a night with my piano, but they’re both out of reach for now. Instead, I pick up the notepad Finn used for our gin rummy last night, settle a pencil between my fingers, and write.
eight
Finn
It’snearlynoonthenext day, and I’m sprawled on the sofa, feet on the coffee table and my computer on my lap, when Rosie climbs down from the loft. She’s been writing in bed all morning after not moving from the couch all yesterday afternoon, scribbling away on the notepad we used to play gin rummy again last night. She’s been almost constantly distracted for the last twenty-four hours, and we’ve been co-existing in the kind of companionable silence I could get used to.
Rosie takes the sofa opposite mine and tucks her feet up underneath her. She’s wearing another of my old flannels despite the shopping bags I carried up to the bedroom for her, and though today’s shirt is just as long on her as the first, she’s missed the final few buttons again, creating a thigh-high split that reveals more than the soft fabric hides.
Should I be bothered that she’s helping herself to clothes from my closet? Maybe. Am I? Not even close.
“Hey,” she says.
I flick her a glance over the top of my computer screen. “Hey.”
“Watcha doing?”
“Sorting out your security team.”
“That sounds like something I should know about, don’t you think?”
“I do think that. Yes.”
She sits up straight, clasps her hands on her knees, and hits me with a serious frown. “What’s the situation?”
I sit up, put my feet on the floor, and set the laptop on the coffee table. “I’m using my friend’s executive security firm because I trust him,” I begin, and she immediately interjects.
“How do you know this friend?”
I’m equally pleased that she’s taking this seriously and uncomfortable that her line of questioning could move us into territory I don’t want to explore.
“His brother was a military buddy of mine,” I explain. “My best friend, in fact. Drew, the brother that runs this firm, is a good guy. I trust him or I wouldn’t involve him in this.”
Thankfully, my brief rationalization is enough for Rosie. “And what does Drew recommend?”
“He’s already got a remote surveillance team up and running. They’re monitoring your social media accounts and associated online activity as well as searching for your attacker’s location. It might take time, but they won’t stop until they find him.”
Rosie’s nod is contemplative as she absorbs this new information. “That sounds reasonable.”
“His other task is putting together a ground team to be with you in Los Angeles. Drew is sending through options via email. If any of the candidates pass my quality check, I’ll share them with you for review.”
Rosie lifts one perfect brow, a few shades darker than her blonde hair. “Ifany pass your quality check?”
“I’m not taking chances. If I’m going to do a job, then I’m going to do it right.”
Her quirked eyebrow is amused, but she tilts her head apologetically. “I didn’t mean to tease you, Finn. I appreciate how seriously you’re taking all this.”
I shrug off the compliment. “And what about your next steps? I noticed you still haven’t switched on your phone.”
We both glance at the small black device on the table between us.
“I don’t want to see his name,” she admits. “I don’t want to deal with the missed calls and unanswered texts. I don’t want to face him right now, even if it’s only via a screen.” Rosie curls her hands up inside the baggy sleeves of my flannel. “I know that makes me a coward but—”
“It means you know your limits,” I say. “Trauma isn’t weakness, Rosie, and you don’t owe him anything. Not a phone call or a text message or an explanation until or unless you’re ready to give it to him, and only then because it’s something you need to do for you.”
“Thanks, Finn.” She crosses her arms and lifts her chin a little. “I hope I’ll have it in me to confront him one day.”
