Searching for Shadows, page 15
“How?”
“You could start by talking to Rylan Cross.”
“No.”
“Or go back to group therapy. The guys there miss you.”
She turned toward him, her eyes huge and full of a desperation he had never seen before. The sight sent a pang of guilt through him.
“You think I can just go back? Walk into that room full of men and just... trust them?”
“Yes, because they’re your friends.”
“Friends?” She scoffed as more tears slid from her eyes. “I was raped, Connelly. I was raped by three men I thought were my friends. And when I told them no, tried to fight them off, they pulled a gun on me.”
He flinched at the reminder. What she’d gone through that night… it was unthinkable. Unbearable. “They were never your friends.”
If she heard him, she didn’t acknowledge it. “How can I ever trust anyone again?”
“Do you trust me?”
She pressed her lips into a thin line and turned to stare at the sunset.
It hurt, and the hurt rankled. He clenched his jaw, swallowing down the bitter taste of regret. “Do you blame me for leaving you alone in the hotel that night? Leaving you with those men?”
“You couldn’t have known,” she whispered. “You thought they were your friends, too.”
“But you blame me anyway.”
The silence between them stretched out, filled only by the soft rustle of the wind through the spring leaves and Rebel’s soft snore from where she lay curled up with the towel at Veronica’s feet. Twilight encased them in its cool embrace.
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, breaking the silence. “I know that doesn’t make up for anything, but I’ll be sorry for losing my temper and leaving you there until the day I die.”
“No. I shouldn’t have made a big deal about...” She trailed off and took a breath. “About what happened between us that night. About that kiss and where we seemed to be headed with it. It scared me because you’re... you. And I never saw you as more than a friend until suddenly, that night, I did.”
“I’ve always wanted more than friendship with you.” He said it suddenly, almost too candidly, and the words seemed to hang in the air between them, the ghost of a truth he had long kept secret. In the thick silence that followed, he could hear his own heartbeat too loudly in his ears.
Veronica turned and stared at him, her teary eyes wide in surprise, her mouth opening slightly as if to speak. But no words came out.
He shifted uncomfortably, feeling more naked now than he had in the bathroom with nothing but that ugly hand towel. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you should have. I...” Her voice trailed off. “I need to go back inside.”
He didn’t move as she set Alfie down and stood. Didn’t move as she passed by him close enough that he could smell the familiar scent of her favorite lotion—warm vanilla and dark cherry. Didn’t move as her fingers brushed the back of his hand in a light touch. A kind of peace offering. He longed to reach out, to pull her into his arms and convince her to stay.
But he didn’t.
As she reached the door, her slender fingers lingered on the pull of the sliding door. She didn’t look back at him, but he could see her shoulders tense. “I don’t blame you for what happened to me, Connelly. I blame you for using it for fodder for one of your books.”
That finally got him moving. He burst out of the chair, hating that he made her flinch. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It was a betrayal I can never forgive.” She opened the door and stepped inside, shutting the door with a firm thump in his face.
He pulled it open and followed her. “No. You’re not walking away from this conversation. Not again.” He crossed to the bookcase in the living room and pulled his book off the shelf. “Did you even read the whole thing?”
Temper sparked in her eyes as she poured wine into the waiting glass. “Fuck, no. Why would I?”
“Because I didn’t write it about you, Veronica. I wrote it for you. To remind you how strong you are. To remind you that you can conquer any-fucking-thing.” He slapped the book down on the island beside her glass. “Even fear.”
chapter nineteen
“Read it. And if you still think I betrayed you, I’ll deserve all of your hatred and more.” Connelly went to the front door and whistled to the dogs. They charged in from the back deck, tails wagging. “We’ll be out front. And I’m staying tonight, but I’m not sleeping on the porch again. I’ll take the couch.”
He stepped through the door and disappeared outside. She hated him for that, for the ease with which he could leave if he wanted.
Veronica downed the glass of wine without taking a breath, then stared at the book like it was a vile creature.
The Shadows Within.
She traced the embossed letters on the cover with a trembling hand. She didn’t want to read it. She was afraid it might reveal more about her than she was ready to face.
But she faced a killer today. She went for a walk and sat on her deck. After all that, she wasn’t about to back down from this simple challenge.
She could read a damn book.
The dogs’ playful barks echoed from outside, reminding her that she was not alone.
Drawing a deep breath, she took the book to her bedroom, opened the cover, and began to read. As the world Connelly had written unfolded before her, it was like walking through a mirror image of her own fears, magnified and darkened. It was gruesome, violent. It was terrifying... and intoxicating, like the heady rush of a roller coaster’s first drop. With each page, she was unwillingly pulled deeper into the town of Ravenshade.
Hours passed. Her wine glass stood empty. At some point, Connelly must have let the dogs into the bedroom and they curled up on either side of her, Rebel against her legs and Alfie under the blanket at her hip. At one point, she heard the sheriff in the living room talking to Connelly, but she ignored them. She was too engrossed to break away from the hold the book had on her. The tale was all-consuming, a window into her own struggles wrapped in a veil of fiction.
Connelly’s writing skill pulled every emotion from her with an intensity that left her raw and unsettled. She saw all the obvious pieces of herself in Vanessa Vale: the physical description, the stubbornness, the overwhelming fear that kept her trapped inside her home. But underneath it all ran a current of resilience. Despite the mounting threats, Vanessa never surrendered. She stumbled and fumbled—yes. She was terrified—yes. But she didn’t give up. And she prevailed.
When Veronica finally set the book down, her heart pounded and her eyes stung from staring at the pages for so long, but she couldn’t deny the truth. Connelly hadn’t betrayed her. He had used her painful past to craft a story of fear and triumph, and he’d dedicated it to her.
She flipped to the front of the book and read the dedication again:
For Vee, the strongest person I know.
Her fingers traced the words, and tears welled in her eyes. Connelly had taken something so private and intimate, something that had scarred her so deeply, and turned it into a story of hope and fortitude.
In the book’s protagonist, she didn’t see the broken woman she saw when she looked in the mirror. Instead, she saw a warrior. A survivor. A woman who refused to be broken by the darkness that threatened to engulf her.
Was that how Connelly saw her?
She climbed off the bed and found him asleep on the couch, his laptop open on his lap, the blue glow of the screen illuminating his face. His head was tipped back, his mouth slightly open. He looked peaceful, the lines of worry that usually furrowed his brow smoothed out in sleep.
In an instant, she was thrown back to San Antonio and that day on the river when he fell asleep on his tube. She still had that picture of him, and looked at it more often than she cared to admit.
She hesitated for a moment, then quietly approached him. The living room felt empty and quiet now, the only sounds being the soft hum of the laptop fan and Connelly’s steady breathing.
She stopped by the couch, looking down at her childhood friend. The man who used her pain to create a horror masterpiece. A story that mirrored her own life and yet gave her a sense of hope she hadn’t felt in a long time. She wanted to hate him for it, for making her confront her demons through the pages of his book. But she couldn’t. Not anymore.
She reached out and gently closed his laptop, setting it aside on the coffee table. He stirred but didn’t wake up. She unfolded the quilt from the back of the couch and draped it over him.
Tomorrow.
She’d tell him what the book meant to her tomorrow.
She returned to her room, carrying The Shadows Within with her. But this time, she didn’t open it to read. She clutched it against her chest like a cherished amulet as she lay down in bed and snuggled the dogs.
Veronica bolted awake as the scream tore from her throat, and less than a heartbeat later, her bedroom door flew open. Connelly was there, gun in hand, sweeping the room like the professional badass he was.
Rebel growled, her hackles rising until she realized who it was. She settled at the foot of the bed again, but she was tense, alert, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Alfie poked up from under the blankets and yawned. Somehow, the sight of him calmed Veronica more than the tough, muscular dog sitting guard over her feet. She scooped him up and buried her face in his soft fur.
“Are you okay?” Connelly asked, his voice low and soothing even as he continued to scan the room for threats.
She gasped for air and looked around the room, her eyes darting from one corner to the next. It was dark and quiet, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her.
Connelly stepped closer, his gun still at the ready. “Don’t worry. You have nothing to be afraid of, Vee. I’ve got you. You’re safe here.”
She nodded and forced herself to draw deep, even breaths until her heartbeat slowed from a gallop to a trot. “Okay,” she managed after a moment. “Okay,” she repeated and loosened her death grip on Alfie. She set him back down on the bed and watched as he snuggled under the blankets.
Connelly set the gun within easy reach on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, his gaze never leaving her. “Do you want to talk about it?”
She shook her head and hugged her knees to her chest. “It was just a nightmare.”
“I know how hard it can be to shake those off.” He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I’ll be right out in the living room if you decide you want to talk.”
She leaned into his touch, grateful for the warmth and comfort he provided. “Stay with me. Please.” The words were out of her before she could think better of them.
If Connelly was shocked, he did a good job hiding it. Without a word, he crawled onto the bed beside her, staying on top of the blankets. He didn’t touch her but scooted close enough that their foreheads nearly pressed together.
“Was it my book?” he asked softly.
Moisture gathered in her eyes. She pinched them shut, willing herself not to cry, and shook her head. No, it hadn’t been his book. It hadn’t even been the asshole who attacked her yesterday. It was the same nightmare she always had, three blurred faces leaning over her, laughing, grunting... faces of friends twisted into demons. A tear squeezed out despite her efforts, and he caught it on his thumb.
“I hate seeing you cry, Vee. I wish I could trade places with you, take all of your fear into me just to give you a moment’s peace.”
She sniffled, wiping away the tears with the back of her hand. “But you can’t. No one can. It’s just something I have to deal with.”
Connelly’s eyes darkened with concern. “But that’s the problem. You’re not dealing with it.”
“I know.” It stung to admit, but he was right and she was so tired.
Tired of the fear.
Tired of not feeling like herself.
Tired of... everything.
She didn’t know how much longer she could live like this.
She scooted forward until her forehead pressed against his, and she felt the warmth of his breath on her skin. It was a comfort, an anchor in the storm of her thoughts and feelings. And for the moment, she wasn’t scared. She could never be afraid of him.
“Can you... hold me?”
Connelly’s arms slid around her waist and pulled her close. There were still blankets between them, but she liked the solid weight of his body against hers, the strength of his muscles beneath his t-shirt, and found herself relaxing into his embrace. He was a protector, a defender, and she felt safer with him than she had with anyone in a very long time.
“Where did you get the gun?” she asked, her voice muffled against his neck.
“Ash came by. He wanted to question you, but I told him you needed time.”
“Thank you.”
He rested his chin on top of her head. “You never did tell me why you were at my house earlier.”
“And you never told me about why you were in a cave.”
His soft chuckle made his throat hum against her cheek. “I helped RWCR with a rescue. I helped save a woman today.”
Something in his voice—exhilaration with a note of... was it longing?—had her pulling back to look at him. “You loved it.”
He breathed in deeply and exhaled in a rush. “I did. I forgot how good it feels to help someone during the worst moments of their life. I’ve missed it. Don’t get me wrong, I love writing. I’ve always wanted to write—you know that. But I think I need to help people, too. I think that’s why I haven’t been able to write for a while now.”
She pushed herself up on her elbow. “Are you going to join the team?”
“I’m considering it.”
“You should.” The words gave her a pang of envy. She wished she could be like him, finding a balance between the past and the present. But her past was a gaping hole, sucking up any possibility of moving forward.
Reaching out, she traced the faint scar on his chin. That scar represented everything Connelly Davis was. A fierce protector. A capable healer. A supportive ally even in the worst moments.
“You should,” she said again. “I’m sure the team could use a medic.”
Connelly caught her hand and kissed her knuckles gently. “Vee,” he said in that soft voice of his, full of compassion. “Why does that make you sad?”
“I…” She wanted to be happy for him that he’d found his place again, found a purpose, and she hated that he’d picked up on the note of sadness in her voice. “I wish I could be like you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have... life.” The last word came out choked, causing Rebel to whine softly, her ears perking up in concern. Alfie squirmed to get closer. She gave them both reassuring pats and settled into Connelly’s waiting arms.
“You have it, too,” he whispered into her hair, holding her closer. “You’re full of life. Always have been. You’ve just lost your way a bit, is all. You’re so much stronger than you think.”
“But what if I’m so broken I can’t ever be fixed?” she whispered against his shoulder. It was her greatest fear, one she’d never before spoken out loud, and she held her breath for several long seconds until he responded.
“No one’s completely broken.” His hand cupped her head, fingers threading through her hair in a comforting rhythm. “Sometimes we just need to find a new way of being. It’s like that big mosaic you used to have on your apartment’s wall. The one you found at that flea market in San Antonio? That was just a bunch of broken pieces of glass glued together, but nobody would have ever looked at it and called it broken. It was beautiful, and, in that new form, the glass pieces were stronger than they used to be.”
His words sunk deep into her heart, spreading like roots through the barren places she’d been too afraid to explore. She nestled herself deeper into his arms, craving the warmth and safety he provided as his fingers continued their calming stroke through her hair.
“You always know what to say.”
“Not always,” Connelly admitted with a sad chuckle against her temple. “After what happened to you, I had no idea what to say. It’s why I wrote the book. I never meant for it to hurt you.”
“No, I should’ve read it instead of just assuming it was a cash grab at my expense. I know you better than that. I’m sorry I held it against you. I was just too hurt and confused and didn’t want to see the truth.”
He gave her a squeeze. “You don’t need to apologize, Vee. I was confused, too. And hurt. And angry—so fucking angry. At those shitheads for hurting you. At myself for leaving you there. At the Air Force for brushing it all under the rug because Blake-fucking-Edwards was a general’s son. You know I punched him after I found out what he did? Broke his jaw. That’s why I had to leave the PJs. He got his dad to say I was reckless and dangerous, and eventually, they made up some bullshit excuse to push me out, too.”
“My dad told me. I’m so sorry. I know it must’ve hurt after all the work you did to get into pararescue.”
“Yeah.” His lips curved into a smirk. “Worth it.”
Silence fell between them, filled with the soft sounds of their breathing and the occasional snore from Rebel. She closed her eyes, a strange kind of peace settling over her.
“Did it help?” she asked in a faint whisper.
“What, punching the bastard?”
“Writing the book.” She felt his fingers pause in her hair before resuming their soothing strokes.
“It did,” he admitted after a moment.
Veronica allowed another silence to stretch between them, her thoughts wandering to the past. Before the rape. Before the Air Force. Back when they were kids playing around in his backyard in the summertime, the dry grass crunchy under bare feet and carefree laughter ringing through the air. There had been something wonderfully simple about those days. She wished they could go back.
