Chapter 6

"Be brave and kind," I murmur as I get out of the rideshare, my socked feet aching as I stride slowly up to the front door.

Socks I stole from King"s dresser.

As he slept through Dr. Pol delivering a bevy of infant cows that were breech, and thus saving more than a handful of mama cows.

A crime against humanity that.

Missing out on one of the greatest shows in television history?—

Either that or the drugs Dr. Halston gave me drove me to delusions.

Maybe both.

Probably, though, I should have taken one of those pills before I snuck from King"s house in the early hours of dawn, creeping as quietly as a woman with sliced up feet and bruised ribs and a throat that hurt to speak, let alone to snark, could creep.

Luckily, Kingston was out.

He hadn"t so much as moved as I slipped from the bed and hobbled into the bathroom, hadn"t twitched when I opened the closet door and riffled through his drawers for a pair of sweats that wouldn"t trip me as I did more of that hobbling, along with socks and a pair of boxer briefs I was able to swap for my sexy wedding lingerie, which was beautiful but wholly uncomfortable—especially after an escape from a church and a hike through a thick grove of oak trees and a safari along a wet, rain-covered roadway.

Oh, and a cool, refreshing dip into the lovely roadside pool of dirty water.

Where I probably picked up a nematode or something.

Great.

But another problem for another day.

And nematodes are creatures too?—

Said no one ever.

But…

I"m delaying.

Because I want to do anything but complete the walk up to the front porch, anything but punch my code into the keypad and walk into the house I created with Phillip.

The house that was a big fucking lie.

"Be brave and kind," I whisper again, more out of habit than intending to actually be kind.

Phillip is a giant asshole who doesn"t deserve kindness.

Or forgiveness.

Or…

Well, anything except for someone to do to him what he did to me.

Someone bigger and stronger and more powerful than him.

So he"d understand exactly how he made me feel.

The dick.

I inhale. Exhale.

Put the petty aside. Hug the wounded little girl inside me who"d been hurt too often.

And force myself to keep the promise I made to my dad, myself.

Be brave and kind.

Even if, right now, I"m just settling for being brave.

Because it feels like a big thing to just turn the handle and push into the house, to walk by the wall of pictures I hung there, carefully measuring and remeasuring so that not one was a single millimeter off, so that?—

Phillip wouldn"t be upset that everything wasn"t just perfect.

I freeze mid-bend, preparing to remove my shoes, when I remember I don"t have any on.

Because my Cinderella-esque pumps, covered with so many blueish crystals that they gave the impression of a glass slipper, were lost somewhere during my escape.

I swallow hard, brave a bit harder to come by.

Then I walk by the wall of pictures, move toward the stairs, start climbing them slowly and carefully and…painfully.

Shoes. Clothes. My computer and makeup and the box from my dad. My papers and purse—not the tiny one that Chrissy had promised to retrieve for me from the church with just my ID and an emergency bride kit, but the larger bag that has my life in it.

The first thing I see is my suitcase parked on the far wall right next to Phillip"s, packed and ready to take on our honeymoon to Hawaii.

The sight makes me…

Sad. Angry.

Broken.

I sigh and hobble over to it, grabbing the handle, dragging it near the door. I hit the closet, grab a duffle and shove more clothes in—but comfortable ones, not the stylish ones that are filling my suitcase. These ones are of the comfortable-I-just-broke-up-with-my-fiancé-because-he"s-an-abusive-asshole variety.

Loungewear is a requirement for this situation.

Not dresses and blouses and lingerie.

I exhale, putting a hand against my ribs when they protest, then finish shoving as much as I can into the duffle, along with my makeup and a couple of pairs of comfortable shoes.

Now for my papers.

I leave the bag by my suitcase, hating how much of a struggle it is to heft it and carry it over, and then hobble down the hall and into my office, snagging my backpack and computer and cords and the file with all of my important documents.

Social security card. Passport. Birth certificate. Car insurance.

All of those go in alongside my computer and cords and then I'm hobbling back to my bedroom, and…my heart is suddenly in my throat.

Because I don"t like to look at what I"m going to retrieve next.

Because it"s pretty much the most important belonging I own.

Because it contains the only memories I have of my parents.

And if it"s not there, if Phillip somehow remembered how important it is to me and came back to the house and?—

Well, if it"s not safe and whole then I think he"s lost any chance of kindness altogether.

I move to the side of the bed, to the little door that encloses the bottom of my nightstand, grasp the shiny metal knob, and pull it.

Then exhale sharply when relief floods through me.

The box is there.

I slide it out, careful to keep it perfectly level, to not unduly jostle the precious contents.

And then, so damned slowly, I open the lid.

More relief. Another breath making my ribs protest.

But it"s there. The picture of my parents, smiling and happy. The photograph of baby me in my mother"s arms, her expression tired but incandescent. The only picture I have of the two of us.

I carefully put it back inside, blinking back the burn of tears as I flip to the last picture, the one of me on my dad"s shoulders, hair in pigtails, grinning like a tiny lunatic.

He"s smiling, but it"s not like the first picture.

His happiness tempered by grief.

By loss.

I sigh softly, carefully tuck his picture where it belongs—right next to the one of my mom—and touch the bracelet I stashed inside years ago. Because Phillip said it was childish and I didn"t want to fight. Because it was too precious to keep putting him off about it.

But I didn"t realize how naked my wrist had felt since the moment I took it off.

No more.

Be brave and kind.

My dad"s words, spoken to me over and over again.

Be brave, like him. Be kind, like the mother I don"t remember, the mother I can"t remember because she died mere hours after my birth.

I lay the bracelet flat, fumble with the clip for a moment before I manage to get it secured, and then I lift my arm, smiling at the cheap plastic and wood and metal charms that my dad brought me back from each of his business trips.

I have an Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, a koala, the Colosseum, a boat, and even the Golden Gate (though we"d picked that one out together on one of our visits across the bay and into San Francisco). And…I have a charm my dad"s assistant found in his briefcase, after he"d had that heart attack while on his final business trip.

This one shaped like a kangaroo.

I smile and touch the little trinket, sending the kangaroo hopping on the link that hangs from my wrist.

My dad wasn"t perfect.

But I never doubted he loved me.

Not like?—

I freeze, fingers clenching on the edge of the box, as the hairs on my nape prickle.

Slowly—oh so slowly—I turn my head, and glance back over my shoulder.

I see Phillip standing in the doorway…

And the fury on his face is absolutely terrifying.