“I’m glad I could. Tomorrow we can go back and get the rest of your stuff.”

“The owners of the cabin will be back at the end of the week, I think. I can let them know the roof needs to be fixed.” I work on sounding flippant about it, because I’ve already been the damsel in distress more times than I’d like with RJ.

RJ cocks a brow. “At the risk of sounding like I’m telling you what to do, you can’t stay there anymore, Lainey.”

“I’ve already paid for it, though, and I can’t afford to rent something else.”

“You don’t have to rent something else. You can stay here. Four bedrooms, remember? And you’re already set up in one of them. Unless you don’t want to stay here. If that’s the case, then I can drive you to town and we can see what’s available there, but that cabin is a total shithole, and I can’t in good conscience take you back there unless it’s to get your things.”

CHAPTER 9

SENSORY EXPLORATION

Rook

Shit. That might not have been the right thing to say.

Lainey’s expression remains flat for several more seconds before she finally cracks a smile. “It really is a dump, isn’t it?”

I’m relieved she didn’t take that the wrong way. “I gotta be honest—I felt bad leaving you there the first night.”

“I felt bad about that too.”

I laugh at her wry grin. “So you’ll stay here? I don’t have to worry about that roof caving in on you or the raccoons cuddling in bed with you?”

“I think mice and spiders are the more likely cuddlers.” Lainey shudders. “Yes, I’ll stay for now.”

We sit by the fire, drinking spiked hot chocolate and talking about what it’s like to grow up with four older brothers and three older sisters. I like that I can talk about my siblings and my family with her. As we share stories, I decide I should come out and tell her the truth about my job and hope that she isn’t upset that I wasn’t honest in the first place. I prop myself up on one arm so I can look directly at her. She’s reclined against a pile of pillows, long hair spilling over her shoulders, eyes soft, cheeks pink with the heat from the fire and the spiked hot chocolate.

“I want to tell you something.” I finger a lock of silky hair, nervous and second-guessing myself. I really don’t want this to change things.

She smiles and bites her lip. “Okay. Sure. You can tell me anything, RJ.”

I return her smile, but I doubt mine is as easy. “So you know how I said—”

A flash of lightning makes Lainey’s eyes flare with panic and her face pale. “Oh no. I thought the storm was over.”

An impressive crack of thunder follows that statement, and she sits up, pulling her knees to her chest so she’s almost a little ball.

Obviously my truth has to wait. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe.” I shift so I can put an arm around her.

“It’s silly to be afraid of thunder.” She turns to me, her entire body shaking.

I slip an arm under her legs and move her so she’s in my lap. “Human teddy bear right here, offering safety cuddles, free of judgment.”

“Thank you. I’m sorry.” She presses her forehead against the side of my neck, warmth feathering across my throat with her panicked breaths.

“You don’t need to apologize for being scared, Lainey. Did you have a bad experience during a storm?” It’s the only reason I can come up with for her to be so freaked out.

She nods against my shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

She’s quiet for long enough that I almost backtrack.

“Remember how I said I went to Seattle for college?”

“But you didn’t stay long.” She said she was only there a month. I assumed the city was too much for her.

“No. I didn’t.”

“What happened?” Now I’m trying to figure out how thunderstorms and leaving her college program fit together.

“I lived off campus in the student apartments. There was a thunderstorm one night, and the building lost power—so when I woke up, it was only about twenty minutes before class. We were getting tests back that day, and I decided I’d rather be late than miss it altogether, so I got ready and rushed to campus. I was only about five minutes late. It was still storming, lots of thunder and lightning.” She shudders and curls up tight against me. “I was on my way up the stairs into the lecture hall. There was this sound, and at first I thought it was thunder.”

I stroke up and down her back, hoping to soothe her, aware that this story is going nowhere good. “But it wasn’t?”

“No.” Her voice is so small, like she’s trying to hide from her own memories.

“What happened then?”

She shifts a little so she can meet my gaze, her own swimming with ghosts and tears. “There was a boy in my class—or a man, I guess. He was kind of a loner, like me a bit. Quiet. Shy, but also . . . dark? He never really looked happy about anything. Just sort of cynical. But I always said hi to him even though he never looked very friendly, because no one really wants to be alone, you know? And he always nodded. It was never anything more, but I tried.” She clears her throat. “Anyway, that day he brought a semiautomatic to class, and the sound I mistook for thunder was him firing into the lecture hall. A few people got hit before he turned the gun on himself.”

“Oh God, Lainey, that must have been awful. I can’t even imagine what would make a person do that.” I tighten my hold on her as I consider how terrified she must have been.

Her eyes are sad and distant. “He failed the test, so maybe that set him off? I wondered if maybe—if I’d tried a little harder—he would have talked to me. Maybe, if he had a connection to someone in there, that would have stopped him? It’s probably stupid to think that. I mean, clearly there was something wrong with him—he wasn’t balanced—but still . . .”

I brush away her tears as they fall. “You can’t take that on, Lainey. He was mentally ill. The only time a person does something that extreme is if they’re not well. You’re lucky you were late.” I’m lucky you were late, or you might not be here.

“That’s what my family kept telling me. They still do. Because I’m here—and I didn’t see it happen, I just heard it and witnessed the aftermath.” She looks haunted in that way only people who have experienced deep trauma can be. “This isn’t . . . I haven’t really talked about this with anyone but my family and my therapist. It’s just . . . not good conversation. I couldn’t talk about it with my mom—she couldn’t handle it.”

“How do you mean?”

“She worries more than I do. And the news coverage of the incident made it so much worse.” Her fingers drift slowly along the collar of my T-shirt, eyes following the movement.

“I’m glad you feel safe enough with me to talk about it—and as hard as it is to do, sometimes it’s better to get it out rather than keep it all locked up inside.”

“I used to worry that talking about it would make the fears worse instead of better.”

“Because it makes the memories fresh again?” I rub her back, not really knowing what else to do for her.