Page 23 of Fractured Hearts

“I caught you,” Ezra says, still watching me like I’m a scared cat. I stabbed him, so that’s fair, I suppose.

“Oh. Thanks,” I say awkwardly. I don’t like how his eyes on me make me squirm. I’m used to being in the background. The assistant. The other person on the podcast that isn’t a bubbly Harlow. The ignored daughter. But I guess it’s hard to fade into the background when you’re trapped in a house with one other person. “Sorry about your leg.”

Ezra shrugs. “You want to tell me how you ended up hiding behind the couch with a knife?”

“Someone was walking around the house and messing with the windows. I grabbed the first knife I could reach and hid.”

Ezra’s frown disappears for the first time since I met him and he looks a little . . . guilty? That can’t be right. He scratches his beard and sighs.

“That was me. I was testing all the windows on the bottom floor to make sure everything was still secure.”

“You could’ve warned me! I thought you left!” He flinches at my tone and probably my volume, since he’s right in front of me.

“I was about to, but I thought I’d check everything before leaving you on your own since I don’t have a phone for you yet. I was coming back in to ask you if you had any food allergies.”

I slump into the couch. “No food allergies. Just cats.”

Ezra nods and stands, making his way to the front door like he’s about to leave again. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “I think you should come with me.”

I shake my head. “You were right. I can’t walk.”

“I know, but you could stay in the car. I think being here alone without the ability to call for help is probably not the best idea.” He’s speaking to me, but looking directly at the door like admitting he was wrong is painful. Fucking men.

“Alright. Let’s go.” I stand, and Ezra has me in his arms before I can take a single step. Well, a single hop. Normally I would complain because I hate feeling at someone else’s mercy, but the adrenaline crash is hitting, and I honestly can’t be bothered.

Ezra walks me to the side of the house and easily places me in the passenger seat of his truck.

“This is a truck,” I say, looking around to make sure my mind isn’t playing tricks on me.

“Keen observation,” Ezra says, not making eye contact again.

“You had a car yesterday, asshole. You know the low to the ground four-door sedan we spent hours on the same fucking highway in last night?” Turns out annoyance and anger can counteract an adrenaline crash because I’m ready to fight him.

“I swapped it out in case Patrick knew my car,” Ezra says, shutting my door and cutting off any retort I had.

“What do you mean, you swapped it out? Did you steal this? You can’t just swap out cars on a whim,” I say the moment he’s in the driver’s seat.

Ezra sighs and closes his eyes. I swear I can see him counting in his head. “Don’t worry about it, Jo. I have my ways and considering those ways are keeping you safe, that’s all you need to know.” He finally looks at me, and what I see in those icy blue eyes tells me I will not be getting any answers.

“Fine,” I mumble and settle into my seat. “Let’s go.”

twenty-two

EZRA

There isn’t much to the small town closest to the cliffside house. It would make more sense to drive the extra hour into the city so I could do one big shopping trip instead of the multiple small ones I’ll have to do here. It would attract too much attention if I bought a month’s worth of supplies from a small-town grocer, and staying as under the radar as possible is the goal. The problem with chain stores in big towns is that they have cameras, and my dad and I have been running off the theory that Patrick, or at least Eva, has access to facial recognition software. How the hell either of them got that is anyone’s guess. I suppose having a high-ranking government official as a husband has its benefits. Or it did while he was alive, anyway.

I picked the house for how isolated it was, but a small town with basic technology and no cameras was an added bonus. I even introduced myself to most of the town when I came up to buy the place. The designer I hired is also the owner of the only restaurant in town. When I told her that I was buying the house as a vacation home for me and my boyfriend, she seemed thrilled. She said gay men spend the most on takeout. Which cannot be correct if the amount of takeout Willa ordered growing up is anything to go off of.

I was laying the foundation for coming here with Maverick. I don’t know how I’m going to explain Jo. We look nothing alike, so claiming her as a relative would probably raise a few brows. Saying she’s a friend might work if we can keep from fighting while in town. And I know they’re going to ask. This isn’t the first small town I’ve lived in, and they’re all populated by nosy people.

Pulling into the parking lot of the family-owned grocery store, I turn to Jo. “Hey, we need to⁠—”

“Is that you, Ben?” The screech comes with an accompanying knock on my window. Jo jumps and bangs her head on her window. This is all going to shit, and I haven’t even stepped out of the truck yet.

“Hi Martha,” I say when I put down my window. Martha’s orange hair is in her usual bun at the base of her neck. Today she’s wearing a pink flannel. The color varies, but it seems like the woman is always in a flannel no matter the time of year. “It’s nice to see you again.” As much as I really enjoy the restaurant owner/interior designer, now is not a great time for a chat.

“I knew that was you. I told my Darren. I told him there’s no one else who would have hair like that in a place like this.” Martha laughs to herself and rubs my head like a dog.