Hidden Scars (12 page)

       “You know he’s got a sneaky way of finding you when you don’t want to be found.” Taylor hung up after Jamie said good night and tossed the phone on the counter.

       If Tony came for him, or sent one of his cronies, they’d target Sara. He’d known it was a possibility even when he’d started his pursuit of her. Staying away from Sara was the safest option. His only option.

       She’d felt so fucking perfect in his arms.

       Fuck it. Fuck Tony and his guys. He didn’t have any guarantee Tony would come after him for his refusal, and he couldn’t live his life waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sara would be fine. He’d make sure of it.

       Sara winced. Her hand was stiffer than yesterday, swollen and bruised. She’d have to remember this for next time: punching walls was not a good outlet for anger. Taylor was right, too. She couldn’t use the hand.

       Thank God she didn’t need two hands to dial a phone. And thank God Larry wasn’t in his office. She left him a voicemail that she wouldn’t be in today, hoping there wouldn’t be any crises to deal with.

       Her parents were next. They deserved to know Sam was out. Steeling herself, she dialed home.

       Her dad answered on the fourth ring. “Sara, honey, you just caught me.”

       The words froze in her throat. She coughed, dislodging the gathering lump. “Sam’s been paroled.” Silence. “Dad?”

       “I’m here.” More silence. It wasn’t the good kind, the kind she shared with Taylor. “Your mother’s already left for work. I’ll tell her when she gets home tonight.”

       Her mom would flip, leave work for no reason, and probably hop on the next plane out of Phoenix. “Please stop her before she heads to the airport, okay? I’m fine. You and Krista are the only ones who know how to reach me. I’ve been careful, and I’ll continue being careful.”

       He sighed. “I know you are. Your mother worries too much. Do you need anything? Need us to talk to anyone?”

       “No, I think I’ve got everything covered. Detective Milan called to inform me last night, and I’m going to call him back in a moment. I have the protection order, and I’ll make sure the police here know about it as well. Sam can’t leave town. He does that, he violates parole, and he goes right back to prison. If he’s doing as well as the parole board thinks, he’ll stay down there and I’ll never hear from him again.”

       “If you’re sure.” Doubt colored his tone.

       She made a face at the phone. “I am. Everything will be fine.”

       “I believe you. I’ll talk to your mother tonight. Be prepared. She
will
call you.” Sara stifled a groan. Her mother would, indeed, call her. And she’d spend an hour or more convincing her to stay in Phoenix. “I love you, munchkin.”

       A lump grew in her throat, making it hard to swallow. “Love you too, Dad.”

       She checked the time. Krista kept odd hours so she might not be awake yet. But she needed her best friend, so she dialed, relieved when Krista picked up on the third ring. “Hey. Got a minute?”

       Krista swore, and something crashed in a tinkle of broken glass. “I do now. What’s up?”

       “Sam’s been paroled.”

       “Fuck me with a pogo stick. The bastard! How the hell did that happen? Wasn’t he supposed to serve fifteen years? It’s been, what? Five?”

       “Six.” Almost. “I guess you get time off for good behavior and shit. Detective Milan called me last night and gave me the news.”

       “Oh, sweetie, are you okay?”

       “Yeah. Shocked, a little scared. A friend came over, though, so I wasn’t dealing with it alone.”

       Sara could practically hear Krista’s ears perking up. “Oooh, do tell. ‘Cause this is something. I know it. It’s a guy, right? A hot guy?”

       She laughed. She’d never considered Taylor hot before she’d seen his tattoo. Amazing what a little ink could do for an impression. “His name’s Taylor. We work together, and we’re…friends.”

       “You are so not friends with him. C’mon. There’s nookie in there somewhere. Give.”

       She wandered over to her living room windows, pushing the sheers aside to watch the activity on the street, what there was of it. “Nothing to give, m’dear. He’s different. Doesn’t go in for labels and shit. Quiet, too, which I have to tell you, I never knew how nice it was to sit with another person and not talk. It’s totally not awkward, either. He gets it, you know? There’s nothing he absolutely has to know right now. He’ll wait, or he’ll pick up on it, because he’s scarily observant.”

       Krista snorted. “Get to the good stuff. What’s he look like?”

       “Tall. He’s got to be close to a foot taller than me. Brown hair that’s almost red in certain lights. Hazel eyes. He’s got this lean muscle thing goin’ on.” She kept the tattoo to herself. She’d known from her first look it was an intensely personal piece of art, and she was going to make sure it stayed that way.

       “That’s it. I’m coming to meet him. Give me two weeks.”

       The thought of introducing Taylor to her oldest and closest friend brought on an attack of nerves. “Krista—”

       “Stop. Breathe. This guy, this Taylor, he’s a good thing, right? He sounds like he’s good for you. Excellent for you, really. It’s only natural I want to meet the man who’s managed to get you to go out after almost seven years. Not to mention I haven’t seen you in a few months, mommas. I need a trip out of LA. We can catch up, and you can introduce me to Taylor if you want. It’s up to you, okay?”

       Sara stepped away from the window, letting the curtain fall back into place. “I know.” It was hard to speak around the tightness in her throat. “Come up. I’ll get the guest room set up for you. You’ll have to sleep on an air mattress, most likely. I haven’t had time to go shopping for a lot of furniture.”

       Krista squealed, and Sara pulled the phone away from her ear. “You were saving the shopping for when I could come up, right?
Right?
You are not decorating that house without me.”

       “Fine,” she laughed. She’d needed this, needed this call to Krista, to her dad. It told her no matter what happened, she wasn’t going to be buried again. “Love you, girly.”

       “Love you, too. I’ll email you my flight info as soon as I’ve got it.” She hung up.

       Sara dropped the phone on the couch and flopped down beside it. She needed to shower. Get dressed. Since she was taking the day off, she might as well do something productive and pick her paint colors once and for all.

       She got up and wandered through the house. Something light for the living room. Yellow for the kitchen. She’d always wanted a yellow kitchen. Butter yellow. Baby chick yellow. She stood in the doorway of what would be her guest room and stared at the walls. Blue? Green? Maybe red? Red. Definitely red. She wanted bold, and this was the perfect place for it.

       Her meandering path took her past the tiny office (sage green walls) and the three quarter bath off the hall (white or seafoam). Reaching her bedroom, she tried to picture what Taylor might like, then abruptly shook herself. She was painting this for her. It didn’t matter what he liked.

       Gray. Gray with a blue undertone, to give it depth.

       Satisfied with her choices, she headed for the shower and took her time, hissing every now and then when she had to close her injured hand around her loofah. The swelling had better go down by tomorrow. She might not want to go back to work, but with her luck, there’d be half a dozen phone calls and twice as many emails to handle.

       Clean and dressed in jeans and a dark purple sweater, she gathered her purse and plucked her phone off the couch. The blank screen taunted her. She had to know for certain what the terms of Sam’s release were. If she knew, she’d be better prepared, better able to fend off her mother’s worry. Sitting on the arm of the couch, she pulled up her incoming calls. There’d been two the night before. One from a 916 area code, the other a blocked number.

       It was probably a wrong number, someone hearing her name on the voicemail and catching their mistake. She ignored the wiggle of doubt. That was the fear talking, and the fear could shut the hell up.

       She hit redial on the 916 number and held her breath as it rang through.

       “Detective Milan.”

       “Detective Milan, it’s Sara. Sara Andrews? I’m sorry I wasn’t more with it last night.” She slid off the arm and onto the couch below, wrapping her free arm around her middle.

       “Understandable, Ms. Andrews. What can I do for you?” The white noise in the background had her imagining a huge room full of desks, like she’d seen on cop shows, phones ringing, detectives springing up from their desks to stalk authoritatively to and fro.

       “What are the terms of Sam’s release? They wouldn’t have let him out and said, hey, see ya, have a nice life, right?”

       He chuckled. “No, that wouldn’t happen. He’ll have to report in to his parole officer on a regular basis. He has to continue therapy for at least another year, at which time his progress will be reevaluated. And in accordance with the protection order, he’s not to contact you or your parents in any way. No phone calls, no email, he can’t even friend you on Facebook.”

       That didn’t mean he couldn’t use other ways to find her. She drew in a breath, willing her lungs to expand. “Um. If Sam breaks any of the conditions, he’ll be sent back to prison, right?”

       “Correct. I’m not going to tell you not to worry about it, Ms. Andrews. But don’t be afraid to go on about your daily routines, either. Please don’t hesitate to call if you have any more concerns. Take care of yourself, okay?” She promised to keep his number in her phone and ended the call.

       The light in the living room shifted like there were clouds skittering across the sun. She stared at the patch of sunlight closest to her until her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten yet. Glancing down at it, then at her phone, she scooped it up and threw it into her purse. He’d done it again. He’d done it without coming anywhere near her. Her nightmares were coming back to life, and it wasn’t
fair.

       She surged to her feet and stalked over to the door. Taking a minute to set the alarm, she slammed the door behind her, the deadbolt shooting home with a satisfying
click
.

       Her Taurus roared to life, and she pointed it toward the nearest fast food joint. After a quick trip through the drive through, she scarfed down a grease-laden egg and sausage biscuit thing. She washed it down with soda and bit into the hash brown patty next.

       The big box store wasn’t busy in the middle of the day, and she took her time walking up and down the aisles, looking at horribly ostentatious fixtures that made her snort with laughter. She wished Krista were with her. Her girl loved this kind of stuff, and they’d spent a lot of time at the local hardware store when they were in college, debating between the faux crystal chandelier and the outrageously ornate candelabra before deciding both would go in their McMansions.

       Most women would hang out at Saks for entertainment. Krista had preferred decorating her imaginary home when she needed a break from the study grind.

       She hated this physical distance between herself and her best friend. Her friends here, as fun as they were, were no match for Krista. Guh. She gave herself a stern mental shake. She’d see her soon. No need to get all weepy about it.

       She headed for the paint department, and smiled at the wall of paint chips. Perfect. She walked back and forth, picking one, putting it back, placing two side by side to study the differences. Her house. She was going to get it right the first time, because she damn well didn’t feel like repainting.

       The sales boy was overeager and bright eyed, and she watched with some amusement as he went on and on about the differences in the paint. It took her a while, but she found what she thought were the exact matches to the colors she saw in her head. Paint mixed, Overeager Sales Boy followed her around like a lost puppy, darting past her every so often to grab what he deemed essential to her painting needs. She was surprised he didn’t offer to come over and help cut in around the trim or paint the ceiling.

       After some awkward one-handed maneuvering, she managed to get the paint and supplies loaded into her car. She detoured a little on the drive home, finding out of the way places she’d probably seen once or twice before and always meant to go back to. She was turning down a street she was sure would lead her back to her route home when she spotted the small storefront.

       
Krav Maga
stood out, in bold black letters, followed by a phone number. Curious, she pulled over and got out. A brochure pasted in the window boasted the benefits of practicing Krav Maga, and the more she read, the more she itched to yank open the door and demand a session. She’d known it was an intense, street-fighting style martial art. From the way the brochure made it sound, it would be well suited for her needs.

       The self-defense classes she’d taken years ago were fogged by distance. Brushing up was one more way to feel safe.

       She tried the door, only to find it was locked. It was just as well. She had a car full of paint to unload, and she needed to put some more ice on her hand. It was as swollen as it had been that morning. She entered the number for the training center into her phone and walked back to her car.

       Her smile was grim as she eased away from the curb. Sam wasn’t going to knock her down again.

       “I was going to get to it, you know.” Jeremy sauntered into Sara’s office and boosted a hip on the edge of her desk, stretching out a hand to flick through her pens.

       
No eye rolling. Eye rolling bad
. She drew in a breath, let it out slowly, and chose her words with care. “If you’ve got too much on your plate, you need to let me know. I can pick up some of it.” It was a variation of what she’d said to Larry the first time. As much as she wanted to rip into Jeremy for his incompetence, he’d probably just go complaining to Larry, and that was the last thing she wanted. She stretched her lips in a faint smile. “Mr. Tanner’s happy, and that’s what’s important.” Or happi
er
. She wasn’t sure how much longer they’d be able to hold onto his business, what with Jeremy mucking up the proceedings.