Page 173 of Twisted Obsession

Today, Caleb Asher will get started on filing an order to prevent contact between Melody’s parents and herself. A prosecutor will examine the claims we’ve made. And an investigator will rule Henry’s death an open-and-shut case.

Sometimes cops aren’t lazy—but they’re always predictable. And an obvious suspect is the right one more often than not.

Our job is to make sure they don’t look elsewhere.

Like at Melody.

But now her father is taken care of, and so is her mother. In a roundabout way. It would’ve been tidier to finish both of them off and be done with them all together… I’m just not sure Melody would stomach that.

Her memories are coming back. She doesn’t always say it, but I like to think of it like a window inching open. She might not notice the cool breeze until she goes looking for the source. Little triggers—good and bad.

I head back downstairs and sit on the floor in front of the couch, leaning against it. She’s so damn peaceful. A little bit drunk, in her sleep, but I appreciate the way her brows aren’t furrowed. There aren’t little stress lines around the edges of her mouth.

Her hand is hanging over the edge, and I take it in mine, careful not to wake her. I tip my head back, resting it on the couch cushion in front of her stomach.

Tomorrow we go back to the real world.

Denver for game three against LA.

Speaking of.

Me: Do we have practice tomorrow?

Church: …

Me: What?

Church: It’s the middle of the night, Rhodes. Wtf?

Me: It’s seven a.m. on the East Coast. Pretty sure you’re the only one who thinks five a.m. is middle of the night.

Church: Should I even ask why the fuck you’re not in CO?

Me: No

Church: Morning practice at 10.

Me: You could’ve said that initially

My phone rings.

I answer it, scowling at the floor. “What?”

“What do you mean,what? Why are you on the East Coast?” Church doesn’t sound the least bit groggy, after all his talk about it being the middle of the night.

“Holy shit,” I murmur. “Are you just getting in?”

“No.”Defensive.

“Yes, you are. Who’d you fuck?”

“None of your goddamn business,” he growls. “I’m the team captain. How am I supposed to explain—”

“You won’t. We’re flying back today.”

“Where are you?”

“Crown Point. In Maine—”

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