Dream Of You - Jennifer L. Armentrout Page 0,6
over Colton.
I knew I should pull away from him because the comfort his slight touch offered was too much. The wall I had built around the nearly consuming terror started to crumble. “That man…that murderer? He saw me,” I repeated in a hushed voice. “If I can describe him, he can describe me.” My voice caught, cracked a little. “That’s terrifying.”
“I know how scary that is, but trust me, Abby.” The hard glint was back in his icy eyes as his hand shifted slightly and his thumb smoothed under the tiny cut along my cheek. “I’m going to make sure you’re safe.”
Chapter 3
None of the pictures that had been splayed out in front of me or had been included in the most disturbing photo album ever were of the men I’d seen in the alley.
Strangely, I felt like I had failed.
I wanted to be able to point at someone and say that was them. The bad guys would be found, and all of this would be over. I wanted that so badly.
But that was not what happened.
Colton had been called out toward the end and even though he’d said he’d be back, I hadn’t seen him while I was ushered out of the police station and guided to my car by Detective Hart.
They’d be in touch.
I had no idea what that meant and I was too exhausted to figure it out. The drive from the city to the townhouse I’d purchased when I moved back wasn’t particularly quick, even at damn near close to three in the morning. By some kind of miracle, I made it home, parked my car, and hobbled up the steps and let myself in. It was only then that I remembered that my one heel was broken. I didn’t recall how I got the shoe back. Maybe Officer Hun?
Or was it Colton?
God.
Please not Colton.
I really didn’t need him knowing that I was near caveman size when it came to my feet.
Flipping the light on inside, I quickly closed the door behind me and kicked off my ruined shoes. My pinched toes sighed in relief as I stared up at the narrow staircase directly in front of the door. More than anything I wanted to climb those steps and throw myself into my bed, but I felt disgustingly dirty and my throat felt like the Mojave Desert.
The section of townhouses had been built in the early nineties so the entire first floor rocked the whole open concept. The living room area was cozy with a couch and chair, situated around a TV and coffee table. The space opened right into a dining room that I honestly never used. Most of my dinners were on the couch. All the appliances had been new in the kitchen, and I’d fallen in love with the gray granite countertops the moment I walked into it.
I turned on the light in the kitchen and went straight to the fridge. Diets be damned. I picked up a can of Coke, popped the lid, and nearly drank all of it while the fridge door was still open, throwing out cold air.
“God,” I whispered, lowering the can slowly as I closed the fridge door. “Tonight…”
There were no words.
I turned around and walked out of the kitchen, carrying my can of soda and purse with me. As I walked back through the dining area, my gaze fell over the framed photos nailed to the wall. When I moved in, it had taken me nearly two years to hang those portraits.
Some were easier than others. Like the picture of me and the girls from college, standing in Times Square, or the really terrible college graduation photo. For some reason, I ended up looking cross-eyed in it. Most people would want to hide the photo, but it made me laugh.
It had made Kevin laugh.
My gaze tracked over to the photo of my parents. It had been taken in their home, in the kitchen I’d grown up in. It had been Thanksgiving morning and Dad had snuck up on Mom, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. Both were smiling happily.
They passed away in a car accident my second year of college. It had been a huge blow, shattering. Dealing with the loss of both parents at once had been nearly impossible, but naïvely, I had believed that would be the only real loss I’d suffer. I mean, come on, what was the statistical probability of losing another loved one to something as unfair and unpredictable as