Free fall, p.4
Free Fall, page 4
But that wasn’t what sent his insides twisting themselves into knots.
Nope.
What had worry immediately filling his veins, burning through his middle, was the piece of paper propped up next to it.
He recognized her writing, even from a distance.
Fuck, but he’d seen it enough at work.
Connor swept across the room, scooped up the note, and felt ice immediately settle in the pit of his stomach.
“Fuck,” he hissed, grabbing his cell, immediately dialing his brother.
It rang once. Twice. A third time.
Then Caleb picked up.
“Where the fuck is she?”
“Who?” Caleb asked groggily.
“Don’t fuck with me,” he snapped. “Where is Raven?”
“What?” The groggy left his brother’s voice. “What the fuck do you mean where is Raven?”
Connor tossed the note on the island. It landed on the plate of cinnamon rolls, caught in the sticky web of icing. “I mean,” he gritted out, forcing his voice to be calm. “That I woke up to the smell of cinnamon rolls and coffee and a goddamned note propped on my kitchen counter telling me she was done with this.”
A pause.
“What did you do?” Caleb snapped.
Okay, that fucking hurt.
His brother said that.
And that fucking hurt.
“Talk to your woman,” he snapped instead of giving into the emotion, the worry for Raven. “Find out where she would go. I’ll get on Soph.”
His sister was a world-famous actress and director and had just flown out for a job.
But she knew Raven better than almost anyone.
She’d have the best insight into where Raven would go after she wrote a fucking note and pulled a disappearing act—and she had the resources to help.
Resources Raven had previously refused to use.
But, perhaps after all had gone down last night, she would be motivated to escape, to use those connections.
Unfortunately, approximately ten seconds of conversation with his sister thirty thousand feet in the air was all it took for him to know that she had no fucking clue where Raven was.
He didn’t waste much more time, just hung up and called Maggie and Misty, was dialing Frankie when Caleb called him back and reported that Kim and Frankie hadn’t heard from her.
“Haven’t heard?” Connor snapped. “Or they’re not willing to share?”
A beat.
“I can’t answer that with a hundred percent certainty, man,” Caleb said, “but Frankie was concerned enough to want to set up a search grid.”
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“And Kim doesn’t know,” his brother said. “She was in bed next to me all night and she’s worried. Really worried.” A beat. “What happened?”
Connor hesitated, but for only a moment.
Because even if Raven had reached her limit on being here, she shouldn’t be out there on her own. “Her mom called her last night.”
“Fuck.”
He sighed. “Yeah, I know.”
“So, are we doing the search grid?”
Connor’s eyes flicked to the clock. He had exactly one hour before he had to be at the hospital. If he was late, that meant someone was stuck covering for him. Something Raven understood, probably better than most. Distract him with food, delay him, implore his loyalty to his coworkers so he didn’t fuck over shift change. Still, he left the coffee, the cinnamon rolls, grabbed his jacket and keys. “Yeah, man,” he muttered as he shrugged it on. “We’re doing a search grid.”
Then he hung up, called in one of the last of the favors he had to call on, and got someone to take his shift.
He had a fucking search grid to complete.
Seven
Raven
It would have been easier if she hadn’t needed to haul her bag up several flights of stairs in order to make it to the front door.
It would have been easier if she’d just gotten a hotel room.
But they would check the hotels, and Darlington was a small town with one hotel and several B&Bs, so it wouldn’t take long for her to be found.
She needed…
Distance.
Which was why she’d gotten a Lyft back to her place, put her new set of car keys (something that had cost her five hundred bucks to replace after the fire) to good use and had driven away from the construction site that was her home.
She’d driven for four hours, winding along the coast, the ocean to her left until she made her way to the house she’d rented for the next two months.
Just…stairs.
That hadn’t been on the listing—that the house was on stilts. That the house with the killer view of the Atlantic Ocean breaking along an expanse of pale beige sand was actually located high above that pretty sand. The height provided her that killer view, but the copious number of stairs made it difficult for her—with recovering lungs and healing burns—to get to the front door.
And with a duffle on each shoulder.
And a backpack slung between them.
Well, she supposed this was her PT time—only to the extreme.
“Almost there,” she puffed, muscles burning, lungs aching, her healing skin pinching. “Almost. There.”
Then she was there.
Within a couple of paces of the door, black was crawling through her vision, blurring her view of her hand as she reached for the keypad. It took three times to press the buttons on the lock and input the code correctly.
A little whir.
Her palm hit the knob.
She gripped. Turned. Pushed.
And stumbled inside.
A shrug and her bags slid from her shoulders, dropped onto the floor. She managed to get the door shut, the lock reengaged.
Then her legs gave out.
And black filled her vision.
She woke with the sun shining through the windows, a soft rap-rap-rap on the glass pricking through her ears.
Every inch of her body was sore, including her head pounded as she lifted it off…her duffle bag? She glanced around, remembered she wasn’t in Connor’s place, that she was in that fabulous beach house with the many, many stairs. Apparently, the entryway had served as her bed overnight.
Yay her.
RIP her broken, healing body.
Rap-rap-rap.
“Christ,” she muttered, lifting up further, and swear to fuck, if she’d rented a house for the next two months with a freaking woodpecker issue then she was going to lose her absolute mind.
Rap-rap-rap.
A groan and she pushed to sitting, rolled to her knees.
Bum lungs, healing wounds, she didn’t care. She’d take a fucking broom to that bird—
Her gaze caught on the little pane of glass to the left of the door, and she shrieked, tumbled back onto her ass, pain shooting through her as her hands came up and clamped to her chest.
There was a face pressed to the glass, Here’s Johnny style.
“Sweet Christ,” she muttered, awake now and thus more lucid—or at least lucid enough to realize that the face pressed to the glass wasn’t a serial killer coming for her…unless that serial killer was a little old lady with curly white hair, bright blue frames on her glasses, and a shocking swathe of pink lipstick.
Grunting, she made it back to her hands and knees, struggled up to her feet, using one to shove back her bags enough so that she had room to open the door.
“Hi,” she said and then promptly cleared her throat because she sounded like she’d gone twelve rounds in a shouting match and was left with a loss (and a rasp). “Can I help you?” she asked, tugging the wooden panel wide enough to see the woman’s purple sweatshirt had three puppies printed on the front. It was paired with black slacks and running shoes. And a plethora of gemstone necklaces hanging around her neck.
“It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
Raven blinked, her eyes immediately going to the horizon, noting that the position of the sun reinforced that assertion.
Yup. The big ball of gas was right there in front of her, preparing to blind whoever was dumb enough to stare at it.
“Um,” she murmured. “Okay.”
“It’s ten o’clock in the morning and you were passed out on the floor,” the woman said, lowering her chin and staring up at her through the frames of her glasses with piercing blue eyes. “Do you have a drinking problem? I don’t like neighbors—temporary or otherwise—with drinking problems.”
Okay, well, that had taken a turn Raven hadn’t expected.
And why was the woman asking about her drinking, anyway? She scrubbed a hand over face, feeling more tired than if she’d just finished a twenty-four-hour shift that had kept her moving from start to finish, and when that didn’t bring any clear answers, asked, “I—what?”
Another piercing look before that gaze went behind Raven, dropped to the floor. “It’s ten in the morning, and you’re asleep on your luggage. Did you drive here drunk?”
Finally, the fog began to clear.
Here’s Johnny to a purple puppy sweatshirt to the sun shining in her eyes to questions about her drinking—which admittedly, Raven liked to pop open more than her fair share of wine bottles, but this conversation was giving her whiplash.
“I didn’t drive here drunk,” she said, deciding to start with the last question and go from there.
The woman’s head tilted. “Then why are you asleep on your luggage?”
She carefully lifted her arm to shove back her bangs. “I was really tired when I got in last night.”
The woman paused, those piercing blue eyes freezing Raven in place again. “Really tired?” she asked archly.
Raven took a breath, trying to decide how much to say in order to get to this woman to go away. Raven’s personal business was her business, of course, but this was a neighbor, and she didn’t want to start day one of a two-month stay with a problem.
Unfortunately, along with sucking in air came a wave of pain, reminding her that it had been a long time since she’d taken her pain meds.
Since the night before last.
Because she didn’t have a drinking problem and she wasn’t going to drive on painkillers.
Not for four minutes. Definitely not for four hours.
“Honey?” The sharp had left the little old lady’s tone, replaced by concern, by the woman moving forward and resting her palm on Raven’s arm. “What’s going on?”
“My—” She broke off, drew in a careful breath, released it just as slowly. “I’m okay,” she said, taking a careful step backward, moving away from the contact. “I’m recovering from an accident,” she managed through those slow and steady breaths. “The drive yesterday took it out of me.”
“What kind of accident?”
It was none of the woman’s business.
But Raven still found herself saying, “A fire.” Her throat got tight. “My house burned down.”
The little old lady went still, but only for a moment, because then she was pushing the door wider and slipping inside.
“Um…”
“Sit your butt down there.” An order paired with pointing at the upholstered bench in the hall. One that would have made Raven bristle, had the bench the woman slid over not been more than welcome. “You just let Auntie Pat see that you’re sorted.”
“I—” But by then her ass was hitting the cushion and Pat—excuse her, Auntie Pat—was bending and scooping up her duffle. “I’m thinking you need to take the bedroom facing the beach,” she said, moving down the hall. “It’s a little smaller than the main bedroom, but it has an en suite as well and a much better view.”
She didn’t wait for Raven to respond, just disappeared into the bedroom (presumably the one facing the beach). Not that Rave could have replied. The pain was ramping up, so she was concentrating on breathing and not passing out.
A moment later, the woman reappeared and came back for the other duffle, leaving Raven’s backpack.
“Now,” she announced when she reappeared the second time, scooping up the last bag—Raven’s backpack—and carrying it into the kitchen. “You tell Auntie Pat all about it.”
Eight
Connor
It had been three months.
Three fucking months.
And she was standing in front of the shell of her burned-out house—though, in fairness, it was less shell and more house now that the construction had been proceeding in earnest for several months.
That had been the only reason he’d known she was still okay, that all of them had known she was okay.
Her house was progressing.
And it wasn’t any of his business to know more—not after she’d talked to her friends, to Caleb, confirmed she was okay and taking some time and that she’d be back when she was back. This had happened an hour after the search party had begun (and just after Carter and Chance had used their PR skills to locate her).
He’d considered driving down to that beach, to make sure she was okay.
But who knew how far that would cause her to flee?
Beyond that, he’d resisted checking on her medical records, had resisted asking the nurse in the burn clinic with whom he knew she was working closely if she’d kept her appointments, had picked up her prescriptions.
Hell, asking for medical information when he didn’t have the rights to it was a breach of privacy that could get him in serious trouble.
No. More than that, it was none of his fucking business.
She was none of his business.
Except, he didn’t have any details, and it was killing him.
And now she was standing there in front of her house, talking to one of his brother-in-law’s foreman, having reappeared like she’d been never gone in the first place.
“What the fuck?” he muttered, slowing to a stop, and pulling up to the curb behind what he now belatedly realized was her car.
Something else he hadn’t seen in months.
He threw his car into park, pushed open the door, and got out.
Seeing the bracelet dangling from Raven’s rearview as he rounded the hood almost had him getting right back in his car and driving away.
Cole, his nephew, had made that for her.
He knew because he had an identical one—only it was sitting at the base of his gearshift. Green and gold beads that were shaped like trains interspersed with pink glittery ones. All on a purple pipe cleaner.
It wasn’t the least bit color coordinated.
But Cole had spent hours making them for all of the Jacksons.
Family bracelets, he’d called them.
And Raven had one hanging from her rearview.
“Christ,” he muttered, thinking he should turn around, get back in his car, and go straight the fuck home.
He’d worked all day.
He didn’t need this shit.
He didn’t need to tear open wounds and stir shit up between him and Raven again.
She was back. She had to be feeling better after all this time. Clearly, she didn’t need him.
Her house, he saw as he continued walking anyway, moving up the front walk, looked perfect from this angle, completely untouched by the fire that had ripped through it. There was a bit of staining on the rocks, left there by the flames and smoke, and the lawn was more dirt than grass and plants from all the work that had been done to date. He also didn’t know what the back of the house looked like, considering that was where the bulk of the damage had been, but everything he could see through the wide front windows appeared to have been put back together.
Walls. Trim and baseboards. Carpet and hardwood.
Cabinets in the kitchen. Appliances and granite.
“We’ll go for our final on Wednesday. Hopefully, you’ll be cleared for occupancy by the weekend.”
“That sounds amazing.”
Connor missed a step when her voice reached his ears.
It was…different. The same and yet different and…it settled somewhere in his belly, somewhere that had been cold for a long time.
“Thank you so much,” she added as they shook hands.
The contractor’s eyes hit his—and Connor didn’t slow. He knew the man. His sister’s husband, Rob, might own the construction company, but he took on enough jobs in town and through the neighboring ones that he needed help. That included multiple foremen, including Hank, who was manning Raven’s job.
He knew the moment Raven took in that Hank was staring over her shoulder.
She spun on her heel, eyes going wide.
Then her face went blank.
Fully blank.
Eyes empty, smile bland, expression blank. “Connor,” she said woodenly.
“Raven.”
If her words were vacant, his were frost-filled.
He didn’t mean them to be, and he felt a bolt of guilt slide through him when she flinched.
Hank sucked in a breath but didn’t move. Just stood there like he was waiting for an explosion to rent the air—and maybe he was.
An explosion between him and Raven wouldn’t have been all that much of a surprise.
But three months had passed, and they hadn’t spoken and—
“I need to talk to you,” she whispered.
Connor’s brows shot up.
“I’m going to step inside and check on that grout,” Hank said. “Make sure they matched the color properly.”
Connor wasn’t sure what that meant, and he didn’t particularly care, not when it meant that Hank walked into the house and left them alone.
“Raven?” he prompted when she didn’t speak after several long moments.
Her head jerked up. “I’m sorry.”
He rocked back on his heels, eyes going wide, mouth dropping open. “What?”
She licked her lips. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For everything.” Her stare wasn’t blank any longer, not in the least. It was ravaged, and it stabbed him in the same wounded spot in his belly that her words and actions had skewered him over and over again. “I know it’s not nearly enough, but—” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
