Chapter 23

Afucking KitKat bar? Seriously? After weeks of being so careful that I knew it was starting to drive her crazy, she decided to fuck everything up and drive into town for candy?

Just a few minutes before, we'd reached a new threshold while I'd had her in bed with me, and it had terrified me. It terrified me how much I wanted her around, and how when she teased me for loving how weird she was, I'd wanted to turn around, grab her, and tell her that it was just the beginning of the things that I loved about her.

My uncle Rick had once told me that love was when you found the person you couldn't picture your life without, and as much as I'd tried to avoid it, she had become that person.

So when she tore off in my truck without an explanation, I'd been seized with a moment of terror that she was straight-up leaving me, for good. That she'd had enough of my bullshit and that she was getting out of Singer's Ridge. And as much as I'd been able to talk myself down off the ledge, the thought had lingered until she'd pulled up again, looking guilty as all hell and, if I didn't know any better, the barest hint of terrified.

The combination of relief and fury was disorienting, and since I was so happy she'd come back, I didn't want to say anything that would push her to actually leave, so I just didn't say anything to her for the rest of the night. We'd gone to bed in silence, and in the morning, I'd found myself waking up with my arms around her as usual.

Fuck. How could I pretend to be furious with her when I couldn't even keep my hands off her?

I got up and took Bucky for his walk, letting her wake up on her own. I still needed time to calm down before I talked to her.

When I got back, she was making breakfast, her face pinched and paler than usual. She put the plate of eggs and bacon out in front of me, along with the coffee, and looked up at me with her wide blue eyes, as if she was begging for forgiveness.

I sat down in one of the stools, taking a bite. "I just don't understand," I said, "why after everything, and after you've gotten so pissed at me for being controlling and you've given up so much by staying here, you would do this, now."

"I wasn't careless, and I wouldn't have done it if it weren't necessary," she said.

"Okay. So a candy bar was necessary? Was it a life-and-death chocolate situation?"

"What if I said it was?"

"I won't even dignify that with a response." I pushed my plate away and put my face into my hands. "Jesus, Macy. You really are the dumbest smart person I've ever met."

As soon as I said it, I knew it was fucked-up. Her face went pale, and she nodded at me once before turning and heading down the hall to the guest room, slamming the door behind her. I flinched at the sound of it.

Through the rest of the day, she and I didn't speak much. The only times she made her presence known were when she came out of the room to use the bathroom, and even then, she kept as quiet as possible.

I knew I'd been an asshole, and that I owed her more than that, but I couldn't get past the fact that she'd completely ignored everything we'd talked about and put herself in danger. And even if she thought I was overreacting and just being a controlling, alarmist ex-cop, the fact remained that I still valued her, and I still wanted her to be safe.

That evening, I went and knocked on the door. "I made dinner." I'd extended the invitation; now it was up to her to decide whether or not she wanted to take me up on that.

I went back out to the kitchen, serving myself a plate of pasta and going to sit on the couch. I didn't even look up as I heard her come into the main room and go toward the stove, serving herself a plateful.

I waited for her to come sit down next to me, but she didn't. When I turned around to look and see where she was, I saw that she was sitting at the counter with her book open in front of her, despite the fact that she wasn't reading.

I finished eating my own dinner in silence before taking my plate up to the sink, rinsing it, and walking over to stand in front of her. She flipped a page, studiously ignoring me for as long as she could before looking up and finally meeting my eyes.

"You know I don't think for a second that you decided to leave the house because you were craving some Reese's."

"You have yet to see me when I get a craving for chocolate. I assure you that can get deadly."

She grinned, a hollow, watery approximation of her usual smile, before looking away.

"Why won't you tell me what made you leave?" I asked, leaning forward and pitching my voice low. She had eaten maybe a single bite of pasta in all the time she'd been sitting up there, not talking to me.

"Why didn't you ask me, instead of just calling me an idiot?"

"I'm sorry about that, I really am. But how do you think it felt to hear you tear out of the driveway without a warning, after everything that's been said and done?"

I knew she was thinking of the night before, just like I was, and she blinked and looked away.

"Do you know what I felt when you were gone?" I asked. It was an effort to keep my voice from shaking in my anger and the memory of how much that had hurt. "Do you know what it was like to see you leave?"

She looked back at me, her eyes filling with tears, and this time she didn't bother to blink them back. I reached over and wiped the tear away.

"Why won't you tell me?" I asked quietly. "You've told me almost everything else. Can't you trust me with this?"

She pulled away from me, getting down and walking toward the front of the room, near the door as she thrust her hands into her hair.

"Can you trust that I will tell you? I just need to work some of it out on my own, first, the same way you're still working on telling me that thing that eats away at you every day."

I felt the blood leave my face, finding it hard to believe that she would compare whatever it was to what I was struggling through.

But she was still giving me the space to work it out on my own. I could do the same for her.

I opened my mouth, prepared to give way and pull her into my arms. I was exhausted by the shit day, and I wanted to hold her as we fell asleep the way I'd gotten used to doing.

Before I could get a word out, the door slammed open, and I had a split second to look over before I heard an all-too-familiar, deafening bang. I ducked as the bullet whizzed past me, rolling behind the island as I heard the granite crack as another few bullets ricocheted off.

I heard Macy scream my name, and I crawled out from around the side of the island, refusing to think of the last time I'd heard gunfire. As I came around the edge of the counter, I felt the heat of the bullet as it whizzed past my head, this time just missing my scalp. Bucky was snarling and barking, trying to get at the gunman. I screamed his name and he came to me, sniffing me all over to make sure I was good. I couldn't let him get hurt. I told him to stay.

I looked up to see someone in a black ski mask, holding a familiar type of Glock, heaving Macy over his shoulder, and all I could think of was the sound of her screams as he took her out to the old, grey car parked outside.

Not thinking about the gun or the fact that this piece of shit was still firing off anywhere he could think of, I ran after him, grabbing my keys from the table and taking a second to curse myself for giving up my sidearm.

I ducked as he fired another bullet at me out of his car window, but even more terrifying than that was the fact that Macy had stopped screaming. I tore after him down the road, Bucky riding shotgun, not thinking of the dark canyons we were driving past or the fact that I'd probably left the door open.

Suddenly, the lights of the other car turned off, and I knew a moment of sheer, blinding panic as I thought of Macy in that car, being driven by a psychopath, before I completely lost them in the dark. I pulled off the road and parked, taking a second.

"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!" I screamed, slamming my hands against the steering wheel. How could this have happened?

I couldn't think of anything but getting Macy back, and I also knew that there was no way I'd be able to do that on my own.

I put the car back in drive and made a beeline for Hank's, barely registering the fact that I was barefoot, and I'd forgotten my wallet and everything else at home. By the time I pulled up, I was just shy of hyperventilating as I pounded on the door.

Soft, padding steps came up, and I was surprised, somehow, to see Nadine looking up at me. "Dillon? What's wrong?"

"Hi, Nadine. I'm sorry about the time, but I have to talk to Hank. Right now."

"Honey, come in. Have something to—"

"I don't have time," I almost yelled. "I just need your husband."

"Whoa, Dillon," he said as he came out, looking over at me with anger and frustration that quickly turned to worry. "What's going on?"

"He found us," I managed to get out. "I don't know how, but he found us, and he just took her."

"What do you mean he found you?" he asked.

"What's going on? Who are we talking about?" Nadine asked, looking from one of us to the other.

"I mean the fucker somehow found out where I was living, tracked her to my house, and just shot at me before kidnapping her!" I yelled. I was past rationality.

Nadine's face went white, and she covered her mouth before turning to her husband. "Take him to see Jim, right now."

I breathed at the sound of the sheriff's name, who I'd had some differences with. "Jesus, Nadine. Jim and I—"

"Yes, yes, but what do you think you'll be able to do without their resources?" she asked impatiently. "Leave Bucky here with me. I'll take care of him." She looked down at my feet for a second before turning back to Hank. "Get him some shoes too."