by Sophie Moss
“It’s a Oaxacan chili sauce,” she said, turning back to the stove. “My grandmother’s recipe.”
He walked up behind her, and she thought nothing of it when he leaned in, peering over her shoulder at the exotic mixture of spices and dried chilies, ground nuts and dark chocolate. Despite the fact that he outranked her, and that officers weren’t encouraged to mingle with enlisted soldiers, they’d been friendly ever since the attack in Afghanistan. She liked to think that it had bonded them. That, in a war zone, when you were fighting for your life, rank didn’t matter as much.
She added cinnamon and a pinch of aniseed, turned the heat up on the burner, just a touch, and was about to reach for the bar of chocolate when his hand snaked out, caught her wrist.
The action was so unexpected, so out of character, it took her a moment to react. Her gaze shot up to his. He wasn’t smiling anymore. His eyes were cold. And there was a look in them she’d never seen before.
She started to step away, but he grabbed her other arm and twisted it behind her back.
“What are you—? Stop,” she said. “What are you doing?”
His grip tightened. He yanked her back against him. “Teaching you a lesson.”
She froze, paralyzed. Panic pooled in the pit of her stomach. No. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. “Stop,” she said again.
He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
Fear whipped through her, pumping through the shock. “Get off me,” she said, then louder. “Get off me.”
He laughed, a hollow sound echoing through the empty kitchen, reverberating through the deserted dining hall. There was no one around—no one to hear her scream.
She struggled, pushing against him, using every instinct and surge of adrenaline inside her to fight. She managed to get one hand free, jam an elbow back, into his ribs, before he fisted a hand in her hair and threw her down on the counter. She cried out when her forehead smacked against the stainless steel. Pain seared through her temple. The inside of her mouth tasted metallic.
But none of that was as horrifying as the sound of him unfastening his belt.
“Did you think you’d get away with it?” His words were hard and bitter. “Did you think I’d let you emasculate me?” She heard the hiss of a zipper, the pop of a button. “You’re no hero. You’re nothing but a whore.”
His hand was pressed into the back of her neck, holding her down. She tried to kick, to shove against him, but he’d pinned her to the counter with his hips. And then his hands were on her clothes, yanking them off her.
She saw the knife, a blur of silver, but it was too far away.
If only she could reach it. If only she could…
“Izzy? Izzy, can you hear me?”
The voice—a man’s voice, low and urgent—raced toward her, like a rope, unfurling down a well.
But the other man was still holding her down. And all she could hear was his voice, and his words—the last words he’d said before he’d forced himself inside her—“A woman’s place is in the kitchen.”
The pain was blinding. But the knife was still there. She could just make out the blade, glinting in the fluorescent lights.
“Izzy? Are you okay?” A hand curved around her elbow, pulling her back, away from the heat of the stove. “Can you hear me?”
She hadn’t been able to reach it then.
But she could reach it now.
She grabbed it, wrapping her fingers around the handle like a dagger, and whirled.
Eleven
Will pivoted, instinctively moving his body away from the arc of the blade—or what would have been the arc, if she’d brought her arm down. But the moment she turned, and their eyes met, she froze. He seized on that split-second hesitation by disarming her, swiftly, skillfully, and with as little physical contact as possible.
The knife fell to the ground and he kicked it out of the way. Far enough away so she couldn’t reach it. Not that he suspected she would. He could already see from the expression on her face that the flashback was fading and reality was beginning to sink in.
He didn’t dare touch her, knowing, somehow, deep down, that that was what had set her off. He stood with his arms at his sides, his palms facing toward her, making sure she could tell that he wasn’t a threat. Adrenaline still surged through his body, carrying with it a hot rush of anger. Not at her. But at whoever had planted that fear inside her.
Someone had hurt her.
And, suddenly, all at once, her actions, her attitude, her isolation from the rest of the veterans made perfect sense.
Izzy’s eyes were wild as they darted around the room, as she took in the faces staring back at her. “I… I didn’t mean…” She trailed off when her gaze landed on the knife. She took a step back. Then another. Two more steps and she turned, pushed past the group of people in the hallway, and fled up the stairs to her room.
Will said nothing, because he knew what that felt like—how humiliating it was to have a flashback in public.
“My God, Will,” Della breathed, her voice shaking. “She almost… You almost…”
Will walked to the stove, switched off the burners. He picked up the knife from the floor, set it on the counter, and crossed the kitchen to where his aunt stood. Reaching out, he put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. They would talk later, in private, when he had the ability to offer her the comfort she needed. Right now, they had a mess to clean up. “I need you to go upstairs and make sure Izzy’s okay. We’re responsible for what just happened. She needs to know that it wasn’t her fault.”
Della wrung her hands. He could tell she didn’t want to leave him, that the image of what had just happened would be seared into her mind for months. But she took a deep breath and nodded before turning and heading for the stairs.
In the hallway, Becca and Ryan parted to let her through. Ryan was holding Taylor in his arms. She was clinging to him, her head buried in his shoulder. He’d probably picked her up as soon as he’d seen what was happening. Will went to them, mouthed a silent “thank you” to Ryan, and carefully took his stepdaughter into his own arms. “Hey, sweetie,” he said, his voice gentling. “You okay?”
She nodded bravely, then wrapped her arms around his neck and just held.
He took a moment to savor it—the relief at knowing she was safe. It was the only emotion he would let himself feel right now. The rest would come later, much later. He had learned a long time ago how to push his emotions aside. How to focus on what needed to be done and deal with the implications later.
He had a feeling they were going to be dealing with the implications of this for some time.
He looked down at Becca. “Where’s Annie?”
“In the garden,” Becca said, the worry evident in her voice. “We saw her when we drove up.”
“Good,” he said. At least she hadn’t seen what had happened. He needed to tell her as soon as possible, but at least she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes.
He turned to face Paul and Hailey, who stood in front of the sofa in the living room, looking shell-shocked.
“You all right?” Will asked.
They both nodded slowly.
“When Izzy comes back downstairs, try to make light of the situation,” Will said. “Joke around with her a little. The worst thing you can do is pretend like nothing happened or tiptoe around her like she’s going to break. She needs your friendship, not your pity. Understand?”
“Yes,” Paul said.
“Of course,” Hailey said.
Taylor tightened her grip around his neck and he whispered a few soothing words in her ear before looking back at Ryan. “Can you get the crabs started? Tell everyone to go ahead and eat as soon as the first batch is ready?”
Ryan nodded, grabbed the steamer pot Della had left on the counter, and carried it over to the sink to fill with water.
“I’ll help,” Hailey offered.
“Me too,” Paul said.<
br />
“Thank you,” Will said gratefully. “Maybe one of you could try to salvage what’s left of the food on the stove.”
“I’m on it,” Paul said, already walking over to inspect the contents of the pans.
Will headed for the doorway, pausing briefly beside Becca. “Find Colin,” he said, lowering his voice. “Tell him to put a call in to Erin, see how soon she can get here.”
Becca nodded. “Where are you going?”
He looked past her, to the front yard, where Annie was walking toward them with a basket of strawberries. “I need to talk to my wife.”
* * *
Izzy grabbed the last of her clothes from the bureau, shoving them into her pack. She walked into the bathroom, scooped her toiletries off the counter, and threw them in as well. It didn’t matter if the tops came off, if the liquids leaked through her clothes. They’d probably confiscate all her belongings as soon as she got to the jail anyway.
Her limbs moved mechanically, her mind racing from question to question. Would they send a police car? Take her away in handcuffs again? Should she call her probation officer? Tell her what happened before she found out from someone else?
She opened the door to the closet, pulled out the basket of laundry, emptied it onto the bed. The last time the cops had come for her, she’d surrendered herself willingly. She hadn’t even considered the possibility of a plea bargain in her future—the opportunity for a second chance. She’d been so numb back then, she wouldn’t have cared if they’d told her they were locking her up for life.
But she did care now.
She had started to feel something today—the tiniest sliver of hope. She had actually started to think that she could contribute. That, even if she couldn’t cook anymore, she could at least use the knowledge she’d picked up from years of working in kitchens to help Ryan understand his new clientele. That, maybe, it hadn’t all been for nothing.
She grabbed fistfuls of laundry, shoving them into her pack. Stupid, she thought. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. She should have known better than to think, even for a second, that things could be different. That she could actually belong somewhere again.
The only place she belonged was in jail.
At the knock on her door, she let out a long, shaky breath. She knew it would either be Will or Colin, telling her it was time to go. She set down the clothes and called out, “Come in.”
The door creaked open and she rolled her shoulders back, mustering one last shred of pride. She wouldn’t leave without thanking them first. For giving her a chance. For trying to save her. She understood what they were doing here, now—why they had opened this place. It wasn’t their fault she was damaged beyond repair.
But it wasn’t Will or Colin.
It was Della.
And the expression on her face didn’t quite fit with the message Izzy was expecting.
Della paused in the doorway, her hand on the knob, her gaze dropping to the clothes on the bed. “What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“Why?” Della asked. It was obvious from the tone of her voice that she hadn’t put two and two together yet.
Izzy stuffed the rest of the clothes in her bag. She needed to keep moving, to distract herself from the emotions rising up inside her. “They’re not going to let me stay after what just happened.” She turned, grabbed her laptop, and started to slide it inside the bag, then paused, wondering if she should email herself the spreadsheet first.
Would they allow her to access her email in jail? Or would she have to start her research all over again, from the very beginning?
She flinched at the sudden hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t even heard the other woman cross the room. She looked up, into Della’s concerned blue eyes. “Do you think they’ll call the police,” Izzy asked, mortified when her voice cracked, “or let me turn myself in?”
Della pried the laptop gently from her hands. She set it on the desk, led her over to the edge of the bed, and sat. She waited for Izzy to sit down beside her. “No one’s going to ask you to turn yourself in.”
“But—”
“What happened down there wasn’t your fault,” Della said. “It was mine—mine and Will’s.”
Izzy shook her head. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Let me explain.” Della drew Izzy’s hand into her lap, covered it with both of hers. “Last night, after you cut your therapy appointment short, Will and Colin met with Erin. She told them she was worried about you, that she didn’t think you were adjusting well. They asked if there was anything they could do to help…pull you out of your shell. She said she’d heard from one of the other veterans that you didn’t cook anymore. She thought, maybe, if you started cooking again, it might help you heal.”
Della took a deep breath. “Colin figured they’d put you on kitchen duty this week and see how it went. But Will decided to take it a step further. He thought that if anyone could connect with you on that level, it would be me. So he called this morning and asked me to try to lure you into the kitchen today. I assumed you’d just lost your confidence, that maybe you needed a little encouragement.”
She looked away. “I didn’t need your help down there today, Izzy. I’ve been cooking those dishes all my life. I knew those beans were bland, and I would never have left those biscuits in the oven to burn. I created that situation on purpose. I had no idea you’d…” She lifted her gaze back to Izzy’s, her eyes filled with remorse. “I’m so sorry. Can you forgive me?”
Forgive her? “I almost stabbed your nephew.”
“I know, honey. And I’m still pretty shaken up about that.” She put a hand on her heart, breathed. “But I should have talked to you first, asked you why you’d stopped cooking, given you a chance to explain. If you wanted to cook again, I could have eased you into it slowly. Or not. That was your call to make. Not mine. And not Will’s.”
Izzy was quiet for several long moments as she let Della’s words sink in. Was it possible that Will felt the same way? That he wasn’t going to ask her to leave? That he would give her another chance?
“Izzy?”
“Yes?” she asked, and her voice sounded different now—hopeful—even to her own ears.
“Did something happen to you…in a kitchen?”
Voices from the yard drifted up, through the open window. The scent of vinegar, grilled corn, and Old Bay seasoning mingled with the salty breezes floating off the water. The faintest rustling of leaves, from the highest branches of the tulip poplars, drew her gaze out, to the edge of the yard. She watched the leaves dance, a playful fluttering of silver and green, before nodding slowly.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Izzy shook her head. No. She didn’t want to talk about it. She wanted to pretend it had never happened. But as the voices beneath her window grew louder, and more people came out of the house, gathering around the tables, preparing to sit down to eat, she realized that wasn’t going to be possible anymore. Too many people had seen what had happened in the kitchen.
How many of them would look at her differently now? How many of them would jump to the same conclusion as Della?
How long would it take before they suspected the truth?
“Do you think everyone knows?” Izzy asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know, honey,” Della said, squeezing her hand. “But what I do know is that everyone here is on your side.”
When Izzy said nothing, Della shifted slightly on the mattress to face her. “Do you know why Will opened this veterans’ center?”
“To help people,” Izzy said.
“Well, sure,” Della said slowly, “that’s one reason. But that’s not the only reason.”
Izzy waited for her to go on.
“My nephew is a proud man,” Della said, “and he doesn’t confide in a lot of people, so I hope that you’ll keep what I’m about to say between the two of us.”
Izzy nodded. “Of course.”
“Will left the SEALs because he was suffering from such debilitating flashbacks that he wasn’t able to perform his job anymore. He was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder about six months ago and has been receiving treatment ever since.” Della looked up, met Izzy’s gaze. “He opened this place because he knows, firsthand, what it feels like to need help, and not know how to ask for it.”
Izzy’s lips parted as, suddenly, everything clicked into place. That was why he’d tried to pull her out of the flashback. That was why there’d been nothing but compassion in his eyes after he’d taken the knife from her. That was why he wasn’t up here right now, telling her to pack her bags.
“Everyone here is fighting some kind of battle,” Della said gently. “The sooner you can accept that, and recognize that you’re not alone, the sooner you’ll begin to heal.”
Izzy rose slowly and walked to the window. She looked down at the crowd of people below. They were seated around the tables now, talking and laughing and passing big plates of food around. “I need to apologize to Will,” she said. “To everyone.”
“Why don’t we get you something to eat first,” Della suggested, “then we can worry about apologies.”
Izzy nodded and, together, they walked back downstairs.
Sprawled across the entrance to the kitchen, Ryan’s dog, Zoey, thumped her tail against the floorboards at the sight of them. Ryan and Paul—the only two people left in the kitchen—glanced up when they stepped into the room.
“Hey, Izzy.” Paul turned toward her with a bag of seasoning in one hand and a pair of tongs in the other. “I told Ryan about that list you made—of the chefs. He’s pumped.”
Pumped, Izzy thought as her gaze shifted to Ryan. She doubted that her boss had ever used the word ‘pumped’ in his life, and she was fairly certain that the list of chefs was the last thing on his mind right now.
