Home to Me

by Bybee, Catherine

  “Maybe next time.” Right now he needed to figure out how to get rid of her body and wipe any fingerprints away.

  Outside the wind howled. The same wind that kept her lover busy.

  Of course.

  Fire.

  He wouldn’t have to clean anything. A fire would destroy it all.

  Erin lost count of how many pills she had actually swallowed. Most of them were tucked under her leg. Even the wine she was spitting back in the glass. Desmond had stopped checking her mouth with the flashlight. She could see his mind racing around for solutions, and he became more distracted. All of which made it easier to hide the fact that the pills were leaving the bottle but not going in her system.

  Still, many had gone down. From the size and aftertaste of the pill, she assumed it was a painkiller. Narcotic. The kind that made her sick to her stomach. Already she could feel her body protesting and her head spinning.

  Passing out was not an option. Matt was at work, and no one in the main house knew what was happening. Her only hope was that Renee had gotten the message and called someone.

  Banking on that wasn’t an option either.

  Matt skidded to a stop behind three black-and-white squad cars that were parked outside the gates of The Sinclair Ranch. He jumped out of his truck.

  “What the hell are we doing out here?”

  Ty turned to him and lifted a phone in the air. “We just got confirmation that someone is in the house with her.”

  “How? Colin isn’t picking up.”

  “Your dad called one of the kids.”

  Kids? “Austin?”

  “Colin can see a flashlight and two people sitting at a table. We told him to back off. SWAT is on its way.”

  Matt pulled his hair with both hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “Calm down, Matt. Your brother’s close and watching, and we have four uniforms inside the property now. Soon as he knows we’re here, we have a hostage situation.”

  “How long is that?”

  “Soon as we’re in position, we’ll let him know we’re here.”

  Matt looked at his watch. “I’ve been gone just over an hour. The damage he could do in an hour . . .”

  “Phone line and power was cut thirty minutes ago, and we’ve been here for ten. Colin’s eyes have been on them almost the whole time we’ve been out here.”

  None of that made Matt feel any better.

  Ty’s radio went off. Someone on the line spouted codes that Matt couldn’t follow.

  Another car pulled up behind them. An officer Matt didn’t know walked up. “The adjacent neighbors have been evacuated.”

  “Roll in and take position.”

  “Air support?” Ty asked into his radio.

  “Negative. Weather is not giving us clearance.”

  Matt cussed.

  “You stay here.” Ty pointed at Matt.

  “Really?” That was not going to happen.

  Ty narrowed his eyes. “Stay where I can see you.”

  Another car joined the party, this one wasn’t marked, and one of the detectives Matt and Erin had talked to got out. “Let’s do this. SWAT is behind me.”

  Matt walked slowly behind Ty’s squad car, crouched low with the officers flanking the side. With their lights off, they rolled in as quietly as they could. Matt found himself thankful the winds gusted every so often, deafening their sound.

  They cleared the wash and stopped their car several yards away from the guesthouse and on the lawn. Another squad car crushed gravel under its tires as it went into the field to keep anyone from fleeing out the back. Not that there was a back door, but Erin did have windows.

  His entire body was a tightly wrapped bow with an arrow ready to burst. C’mon, baby . . . stay strong.

  How he wished Erin could hear him.

  Something shiny outside the window caught Erin’s eye. She rubbed her head and tried to see what it was.

  Something ran by . . .

  Someone.

  Desmond caught her smile. “What the hell are you happy about?”

  She forced herself to look away from the window. “I’m higher than a kite, Desmond. What do you expect?”

  He picked up the empty bottle of pills and stared at her. “You are, aren’t you? Finish the wine. I have to go.”

  A noise outside turned his attention away from her.

  “Is there more?” she said a little too loudly. Erin picked up the half-empty glass and waved it in the air.

  Desmond looked at her.

  “No use in it going to waste. I know how much you hate wasting good things.”

  He actually took the bait.

  With his back turned, she opened the blinds a little more so whoever was outside could see in.

  With the bottle in one hand and the gun in the other, he poured the remainder of the wine in her glass and slapped the empty bottle on the table.

  She reached for it, and he yelled, “Guzzle it.”

  Erin flinched, and the pills she’d shoved under her leg dropped to the floor.

  Desmond leaned over and peered through the darkness.

  Her heart and breath paused as his eyes moved to hers. “You bitch.”

  Next thing she knew, Desmond was shifting the gun in his hands, and she grabbed the first thing her hand came in contact with.

  She threw the wine and the glass at him. Her other hand met the empty wine bottle, and she brought it up with as much force as she could, making contact with his chin.

  Blood went everywhere.

  The element of surprise would only last for a minute and then she’d be dead. Erin had one thought, and one thought only. Get the gun.

  Lights outside blasted the inside all at once, blinding them both.

  Erin shook the daze from her head and rushed.

  Desmond’s grip was loose.

  Surprise, shock . . . she didn’t know.

  Erin grabbed the barrel and twisted.

  Desmond grasped the air as she pulled it away.

  Her legs came out from under her and she fell to the floor.

  Someone outside was yelling into a bullhorn, but all she heard was Desmond calling her a bitch over and over.

  Erin rolled over with the gun in her hands and the end pointing at him. Two loud clicks filled the room as she cocked the gun.

  “You bitch.”

  He lunged.

  And Erin squeezed the trigger.

  “Shots fired! Shots fired!”

  Matt’s entire world came to a screaming halt with the sound of a shotgun blast. “Erin!” he yelled as he started to run.

  Someone grabbed him and held him back.

  Matt took a swing, made it three steps, and two men tackled him.

  Men were yelling. Guns were level with the house.

  Cops were swarming, covering, and moving closer to the door.

  “Erin!”

  A boot hit the door and flung it open.

  No one charged out.

  Three cops charged in.

  Seconds ticked by and Matt’s gut started to coil. “No, no . . .”

  “We’re clear. Someone get a medic.”

  The two men holding him back let go, and Matt ran.

  Blood was everywhere.

  Erin was curled up on the floor, her hands covering her face.

  He dropped to his knees and touched her.

  When her eyes came into focus, she reached for him.

  “I thought I lost you. God, Erin. I thought I lost you.”

  Sobs racked her body until she pulled away. “I’m going to be sick.”

  EPILOGUE

  Two days in the ICU, having your stomach pumped, and drinking activated charcoal was not Erin’s definition of a good time.

  There were hangovers that cured you from ever drinking tequila again, and then there was this. When it was all said and done, the doctors didn’t think she’d have any significant organ damage from the overdose.

  Matt had taken up residency in a pathetic attempt at an
overnight family chair that lay flat beside her while a never-ending stream of visitors flowed through the room.

  Renee made it in on the same flight as her father. Helen and her family showed up less than eight hours later. The entire Hudson family camped out in the waiting room, and Parker, Austin, and Mallory played host. Not that they could house any guests, since apparently the police weren’t allowing anyone back in.

  In truth, Erin couldn’t really tell you what happened the first two days. She saw people coming and going, but she just couldn’t deal.

  On the third day, the fog cleared.

  One of the nurses asked Parker, Matt, and Colin, the three guests allotted at a time, to leave the room so she could shower. Helen popped in to lend a hand. Considering what activated charcoal did to her GI tract, she was never so happy to take a proper shower. She emerged feeling like a new woman . . . albeit one dressed in a blue and white, open in the back, hospital gown. She opted for the chair and not the bed when someone offered her real food for the first time in days.

  Only a few bites in and she was getting full.

  “That’s not enough,” Helen chided.

  Erin loved her sister’s nagging. “It tastes like asphalt.”

  Helen stood. “Then I’ll go grab some of the food in the waiting room. Your new firehouse family really knows how to cook.”

  “My what?” Erin didn’t recall anyone from the fire station coming in.

  “The wives from Matt’s crew. Tamara, Kim, and Christina have been feeding everyone out there since you got here.”

  “I didn’t realize. That’s so kind of them. They barely know me.”

  “Yeah, well . . . they’re a solid group. Loyal.”

  “Did they come into the room when I was out of it?”

  Helen shook her head. “No. Kim said they’d leave off until you were out of the ICU. They wanted to make sure everyone else closest to you was taken care of.”

  The sentiment had Erin blinking back tears. “Thank them for me.”

  Helen leaned over, kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back.”

  Voices drifted in from outside the door before a woman walked in the room wearing a skirt, blouse, and holding a notepad.

  “Mrs. Brandt? Or do you prefer Fleming?”

  Erin shook her head. “Fleming.”

  The woman pulled up a chair and sat in front of her. “I’m Dr. Reynolds. Your primary doctor asked for a psychiatric consultation.”

  Erin lost her appetite altogether.

  “It’s more protocol than anything. Overdoses call for my specialty.”

  That made her feel slightly better. “Oh.”

  “I read your file. You’ve been through quite the ordeal.”

  She didn’t know what to say, how to act, or what to do. “I have.”

  “It wouldn’t be uncommon for you to have some lingering effects after this week. How are you feeling?”

  “Numb, I guess. But better today.”

  Dr. Reynolds nodded several times. “Good. You have an extensive support system out there.”

  Erin caught a smile sneaking through. “They’re helping.”

  “I’m sure they are. Are you sleeping?”

  “With nurses walking in every hour, no. But that isn’t what you’re really asking, is it?”

  She shook her head. “No. I want to know how you’re coping with the death of your husband.”

  Erin closed her eyes and saw everything in living color. When she opened them she saw Matt standing in the doorway.

  “My boyfriend’s father is a retired police officer, Dr. Reynolds. The first thing he said to me when he showed up at the hospital was that all trained officers were forced to talk to the ‘head doctors’ after any shooting. And that I wasn’t any different. Probably needed it more considering I had been married to the man. And since I want to recover from this, mind, body, and soul, I should probably get your number and make an appointment once they send me home.”

  Dr. Reynolds slowly started to smile. “I think that’s a brilliant idea.” The doctor stood and handed Erin her card. She hesitated next to Matt before leaving. “You must be the boyfriend.”

  “I am.”

  Dr. Reynolds reached out a hand. “Thank your father for me.”

  Matt walked in and took the chair the doctor had vacated. “That the shrink?”

  “Yup.”

  “Good. Maybe my dad will shut up about that now.”

  It was nice that he cared that much.

  “What’s up with this?” Matt pointed at the food. “Is that all you’re eating?”

  “It’s pretty nasty,” she told him.

  “I can sneak you an In-N-Out burger.”

  That sounded marginally better. But she shook her head. “I don’t want to ruin the experience if it doesn’t go well. I’ll stick with hospital food until I stop burping up charcoal.”

  “Much better plan. They’re talking about springing you free in the morning.”

  And for one fleeting moment she dreamt of her own bed. “Oh, God . . . Parker’s guesthouse.”

  “About that. Your dad is throwing around some serious guilt money. The sheriffs finished up their investigation this morning, and your dad is insisting on bringing in a team of people to do whatever needs or wants to be done. No one is expecting you to move back in there.”

  She loved that little house. Even though it came fully furnished, she had made it her own. Erin wasn’t naive enough to think she could just walk back in, clean or not, and not see him in every corner. Not until she and Dr. Reynolds knocked it over a few thousand times.

  “What does Parker want?”

  “This isn’t about Parker, this is about you.”

  “It’s her house.”

  “We’re all here for you, Erin. You give us the green light and we’ll take care of it for you, or let your dad deal with it.”

  She reached her hand over to his. “Let my father spend his money. It will get done faster, not cost Parker a dime, and make him feel better.”

  “Perfect. And Grace and Parker will bring your things over to my place.”

  “They’re gonna what?”

  Matt looked at the ceiling and then flashed that coy smile that always told her he was about to get his way. “My house. The one you’re moving into. You know, so I can come home to you.”

  Her heart warmed. “Are you asking me to move in with you?”

  Matt winced. “I hate to ask because you might say no. Can’t we pretend we already did that and you said yes and it’s a done deal?”

  God, she loved this man. “Since I did promise to come home to you, I guess it would be okay to pretend we already had that conversation.”

  Matt did a little fist bump in the air. “Yes!”

  “You’re like a kid who just hit a home run on the Little League field.”

  “Yes . . . yes, I am.” He leaned forward and kissed her. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  He stood. “I need to let some of the masses in before I put them to work.” He started out the door and she stopped him.

  “Matt?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you. For giving me someone to come home to.”

  He blew her a kiss. “Every day that you’ll have me.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Every book takes a village. Now it’s time for me to thank the townspeople.

  Thank you, Amazon Publishing and Montlake, for encouraging me to write the books I want to share with the world. My editor, Holly Ingraham, for finding the pieces that don’t work so I can fix them. Maria Gomez, my Amazon cheerleader. Thank you!

  My agent, Jane Dystel, thank you for always being there. I’m super blessed to have you in my life.

  Thanks to the firefighters everywhere for all the missed meals, holidays, and night’s sleep while you’re on the clock working to protect people you don’t even know.

  A special shout-out to my oldest son, Jeremy. My own personal firefighter, hotshot,
and hero. You thrive on the chaos and adrenaline and never think twice about helping someone else before yourself. I love you.

  Now, on to those women brave enough to share their stories. You—we—fall into one or all three of these categories. Victims. Survivors. Warriors.

  To the victims that have yet to find the strength to break away from toxicity: Bruises are an easy identifier of abuse, but many times those scars are on the inside. Neglect and emotional abuse can be just as debilitating. Sadly it often comes from the people we love the most. Breaking the cycle is the hardest part. But I’m here to tell you . . . it can be done and you will be stronger for it.

  For the survivors that severed the link between the abuser and yourself: You’ve broken away and are trying to piece together the broken bits of your life. Every day you wake up and keep moving means you’ve survived. It isn’t always easy. Working through all the emotions takes some serious dedication and often, outside help. Don’t be afraid to ask for it.

  And you . . . my warriors: You’re no longer a victim and have left the past behind enough to stop classifying yourself as a survivor. No, you’re a warrior. Strong on your own two feet without letting the past define you. You’re an example to everyone.

  There is a reason your windshield is larger than your rearview mirror.

  It shows you where you’re going, not what you left behind.

  Blessings,

  Catherine

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2015 Julianne Gentry

  New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author Catherine Bybee has written thirty-four books that have collectively sold more than eight million copies and have been translated into more than eighteen languages. Raised in Washington State, Bybee moved to Southern California in the hope of becoming a movie star. After growing bored with waiting tables, she returned to school and became a registered nurse, spending most of her career in urban emergency rooms. She now writes full-time and has penned the Not Quite series, the Weekday Brides series, the Most Likely To series, and the First Wives series. For more information on the author, visit www.catherinebybee.com.