Page 98 of Catcher

“Put some clothes on, baby. Your dad is on his way. He’s gonna hang with you until I get back.”

By the time he disappears down the hall, I’m suddenly aware that the reason he’s needed at the clubhouse might have something to do with Robby. I tug on a pair of soft cotton shorts and an oversized tee, then twist my hair up and pad out of the bedroom barefoot.

A few minutes later, headlights sweep across my living room walls, and then there’s a knock at the front door. When I step into the living room, Garrett is already there with my dad. They’re standing near the kitchen entry, shoulders angled toward each other, voices low like they’re trying not to carry sound through the house.

My stomach dips when I notice the gun riding on my dad’s hip in a holster.

They both look up at the same time, as if they feel me there, and whatever they were saying cuts off mid-sentence. Garrett takes a half step back, and my dad’s expression softens.

Garrett reaches for his cut from the back of one of the chairs and shrugs it on. He crosses the space between us, cups the back of my neck, and kisses me. “I’ll be back,” he murmurs against my lips, then he’s gone, boots thudding toward the front door.

The second the door shuts, my dad’s arms open, and I’m stepping into them before I can think too hard about the gun on his hip or the low-voiced conversation I walked in on. He hugs me tightly, careful around my bump. “Hey, Button,” he says, voice rough with worry he’s trying not to show.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“You hungry?” he asks, like it’s a normal night and not the kind where men with guns whisper in my living room.

I shake my head. “No, I already ate.”

My dad studies me for a second, then tips his head toward the kitchen. “Come on,” he says gently. “I’ll fix you some tea. With honey,” he adds, as if he already knows what I need.

It’s something he did when I was little, when I had trouble sleeping. ‘This’ll help you sleep,’ he’d say, and somehow it always did.

I follow him into the kitchen and slide into one of the chairs at the table while he moves around with familiar ease. The scent of chamomile fills the small space, bringing back childhood memories. Dad sets the mug in front of me and sits across the table. For a minute, we don’t talk. I just wrap my hands around the warmth and take a careful sip. The honey coats my throat, sweet and soothing.

Conversation comes easy after that, the way it always has with him. Little things. How are Mom’s rose bushes doing? What about the new neighbors that moved in down the street? Then his gaze settles on me a little longer. “How you been feeling?” he asks quietly.

I shrug. “Tired,” I admit, because that’s the safest truth. I trace the rim of my mug. “You and Mom… are y’all still planning to take that trip?”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re still going to go. Just… putting it on hold for the time being.”

Guilt punches me in the gut. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I know their trip is on hold because of the mess with Robby and me. My dad’s hand comes across the table, covering mine. “Stop,” he says firmly. “None of this is your fault. Not a damn bit of it.”

I blink fast and stare down at my tea. He watches me for another second, then his eyes flick to my face, to the dark smudges under my eyes. “You look tired,” he murmurs. “Go on to bed. I’ll be right here until Catcher gets back.”

I stand, the chair legs scraping softly against the tile, and lean down to kiss his cheek. His stubble scratches my lips. “Night, Daddy.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

By the time I crawl under the covers, the house feels quieter. I’m on my side with one hand resting over my bump, listening for the familiar sounds of my dad moving around in the kitchen.

The warmth of the tea sits calmly in my stomach, and my eyelids begin to feel heavy. I take one slow, even breath after another, then before I know it, I’m out.

A loud bang wakes me from sleep, and I jolt upright in bed, heart hammering so hard it hurts. For a second, I can’t tell if the noise was real or if I dreamed it, but the fear flooding my veins is real enough to make my hands shake.

I hold my breath and listen.

Nothing.

Not footsteps or voices.

Just the hum of the house settling and my pulse roaring in my ears. It’s quiet, too quiet, and that makes the hair lift on my arms.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and move on bare feet. When I reach the bedroom door, I ease it open inch by inch, peering into the dark hallway. I pause, listening again. The bad feeling in my gut grows as I step into the hall and start toward the living room. The house is mostly dark, the only light a faint blue flicker spilling from the living room television. The glow paints the walls in moving shadows as I creep closer, every instinct in me screaming to turn around.

I step into the living room, and my world tilts.

My dad is on the floor, sprawled near the coffee table. There’s blood… too much of it is spreading dark across the rug. Beside him is a man I don’t recognize, collapsed on his back, unmoving.