Heartbreak Bay (Stillhouse Lake) by Rachel Caine (books to read in your 20s female TXT) 📕

I just sit. Silent. Thinking about what I’m about to do, and why. About how hard it’s going to be. About why it’s also going to be the easiest thing I’ve ever done, in a strange sort of way; I’ve always known that I needed to protect my kids from whatever threats came at them. I’ve done it over and over again until it’s a well-worn groove in my soul. But they’re growing up.

This may be the last thing they need from me. The last protection I can offer them. They may never understand that, and I can’t leave a record of why I’m doing it . . . but I have to believe that they’ll know. They’ll understand.

Sam . . . Sam will take it so hard that, in the end, I left him behind. I wish he could know I’m doing that only because of all the people in the world, I trust him—only him—to shelter, love, and protect those precious children we both love so much.

But I can’t leave him not knowing. I can’t. So I turn on the video on my phone, and I take a deep breath, and I tell him. I tell him how much I love him, how much I value him, how much I trust him. I tell him to protect our kids. I tell him that I will come back if I can, and if I don’t, if I fail this time, that I did it for all of us.

I don’t tell him where I’m going because I just don’t know.

I save the video, lock the phone, and leave it on the coffee table.

Then I leave the house. I shut off the built-in GPS. I back out of the garage onto the street and pause there, making sure the garage closes, making sure the house is safe and warm and protected to the best of my ability. I idle in the street, waiting.

It’s nine o’clock in the morning on Thursday. I don’t know how he’s going to contact me until I hear a musical tone. It’s coming from the glove compartment, and a million thoughts run through my mind. He got in, he could have left a bomb, he could have been inside our house. I swallow my rage and fear and open the glove compartment. There’s a small phone inside, screen glowing. I answer it.

“Hello, Gina,” the voice on the other end says. “I’ve sent you a map of where to go. I’ll expect you tomorrow. Then we can get started.”

It’s that short, that calm, and then he ends the call. The number’s blocked, no way to call it back. I check, and there’s a text message with a link. It leads to a map. To the coast of North Carolina.

He didn’t tell me to go straight there. Just that I have to get there by tomorrow.

I go to Kez.

I drive to Javier’s cabin. It’s a long way, and by the time I park outside his gate, next to his rental, I’m not calm but at least I’m not screaming. I see Boot lying on the front steps; he gets up, panting, watching me. Boot knows me; he knows I’m a friend. But I also know that he’s not my dog, and he can sense the change in me.

He barks, and Javier opens the front door. He’s got his phone in his hand, and he looks exhausted and worried, and he stares at me like I’m a ghost he’s conjured up, then blinks and says, “Come on inside.”

Boot recognizes that I’m allowed, and sits politely as I open the gate and walk up the path. I pat his warm head but get only an appraising look, no friendly lick, and he’s already stretched out again on guard duty when the door closes behind me.

Javier puts his phone down. “You didn’t say you were coming.”

“I need to talk to Kez.”

“She’s—”

“Not resting,” I say. “Not if I know Kez.”

He accepts that without comment, except to ask, “Want some coffee?”

“Sure,” I say. Coffee is the last thing I need, but if he offered moonshine, I’d probably drink a jug right now. The old Gwen, the sensible one, is conspicuously absent. He fetches a mug and hands it to me.

He’s got his own morning potion, and we sit together and drink for a moment before he says, “She’s okay. The baby’s okay. Thank God.”

I hate this. I hate that I’m about to put all that at risk, but I know Kezia Claremont. I know she won’t back off, and at least if she’s with me in this terrible, dangerous course, I can try to protect her. But I can’t tell him. That’s clear. “I’m so glad, Javi,” I say. “I’m so glad you’re here too. They’re not expecting you back?”

“Nah. I can make it up.” He gives me a long look. “You heard about Prester?”

“Kez told me,” I say. It’s hard to swallow the next mouthful of coffee. “I’m so sorry. He was a good man.”

“He was,” Javi agrees, and it sounds hollowed out with real grief. “His wife passed. They didn’t have any kids. I’ve been helping Kez get in touch with some of his nieces and nephews. Pretty grim. She told him to see the doctor. But he just . . . wouldn’t. It’s really hurting her.”

I just nod. I don’t know what to say. I can’t lie to Javier, I can’t. I finally put my mug down and say, “I’ll go talk to her.”

He seems relieved, and I hate the guilt that digs its claws into my guts.

I knock on the master bedroom door; I know this cabin like my own home, I’ve been in and out of it a hundred times over the past few years. Kez calls out to come in.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, propped against pillows. Her laptop is open. She glances up at me, and I’m struck by the bruises, the bandages still in place on her