Page 44 of Shadowed Obsession

And love.

I imagine them so full of love to be together once more.

I sigh, grief pressing against my breastbone with persistence. It's the kind of tenacity I haven't felt in months. Or maybe it's always been there, pressing against my bones and muscle, weakening me until I'm too distracted to notice it filling my chest with heartache.

I shake my head, a literal attempt to dislodge the bleak thoughts, and continue going through the last of the things in the living room and great room. I thought I was almost done, but I seriously underestimated just how much Nana Jo liked herthings. I'd never call her materialistic, because she never acted like things were more important than her family.

But the woman loved to collect, that much I'm sure of.

Thank god Cora came over to help this afternoon, because I think I'd still be clearing out the credenza in the other room. Nana Jo had an impressive collection of ceramic knickknacks stuffed in there. And as tempting as it was to just toss them all in the pile for everyone to go through, I don't know, I felt like I had to look at each one.

It sounds stupid even thinking it, but it makes me feel close to her. Like she's still here with me. And god, do I miss her.

“Shit,” I whisper as my eyes start to water. I blow out a breath and look toward the ceiling, trying to calm myself down. No need to start crying for the third time today. But I've always been like that, like once you open that can of emotion, it's super easy to reach it for the rest of the day.

Once I've wrangled my emotions back, I get back to work. My aunt and uncle are stopping by tomorrow night to pick out whatever they'd like to take home, and I want as much of the first floor done as possible. Then I'll work on the second floor and the garage storage over the next few weeks.

And whatever is left can be boxed up and donated. Though I'm already planning to ask Bane and Nova to help with the heavy lifting on that one.

I'm bent over a basket of lace doilies when I hear a noise. It sounds like it's coming from upstairs. I freeze, straining to hear it again. It's an old house, and it makes random noises all the time. I don't want to freak myself out for no reason.

I hear it again.Thump. Thump, thump.

And the anxiety I'd been working on quelling for the last twenty-four hours tears through my mental barriers like tissue paper, flooding my system instantly.

My hands shake as I stand up too fast, the sudden rush of blood to my head making me feel lightheaded. I take a deep breath, but it does nothing to ease the panic that's taking over.

Thump.

It-it's coming from upstairs. Oh my god—someone's in the house.

I spin around, looking for anything that can be used as a weapon as I yank my phone out of my back pocket. Are those guys back? Is it someone else? Someone who wants revenge for what happened to that third guy?

They didn't tell me, but I remember bits and pieces of it. Flashes of memory. And I know the guy that stayed, the one who promised he was going to hurt me, he didn't just walk out. The details are fuzzy, but it's like this intuitive, gut feeling.

And now his buddies are back for their revenge. And I'm sitting here like a side character in the first five minutes of a horror movie.

Biting down on my lip, I bend down and snatch the closest thing: one of Nana Jo's silver candelabras. I wrap my hand around the end, using the heavy base like a club.

My heart pounds so hard inside my chest, that I swear it's vibrating my whole body. I have to forcibly swallow over the ball of fear lodged in my throat as I creep around. I pause in the doorway, glancing at the stairway and straining my hearing again.

Once I go into the hallway, whoever is upstairs will see me. The hallway seems like it's a million miles long, and I glance toward the upstairs five times, forcing myself to waste precious seconds to make sure I'm in the clear. When I can wait no longer, I dash down the hallway, my socks sliding on the hardwood floor as I round the corner into the kitchen. My breaths heave in choppy pants, and I quickly run into the back hall. There's a deep coat closet in there that I can hide in while I call someone.

With one hand tightly gripping the candelabra, I hit his contact without another thought. He answers on the first ring.

“Evangeline?”

“I think there's someone in my house,” I whisper.

“Where are you right now?” His voice is sharp, demanding.

“Hiding in the back hall closet.”

“That's good, baby girl. That's good. Stay there and stay on the phone with me, yeah?”

His reassurance eases the knot of anxiety inside my chest fractionally, and I find myself nodding along with him like he can see me.

“Okay,” I whisper.

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