North Country(21)

“Yeah …” She falters, as if considering her next words. “He blamed himself for where you two ended up. He thought that maybe, if he hadn’t let Jay off so easily, things would have gone differently. He held on to that regret until the day he died.”

The bit of humor inside me fades. “It wasn’t Clive’s fault.” It wasn’t anyone’s but Jay’s and mine. “I’m sorry about your parents. I knew about it all when it happened. I …” My voice drifts. I wrote her a letter when her father died. To express my condolences. I reread it fifty times and then ripped it up, figuring a cop with a rising career wouldn’t appreciate letters stamped from prison. “I would have liked to have seen them again,” I say instead. Though maybe they wouldn’t have felt the same.

Emery’s gaze wanders upward to the window where the music carries through the broken glass. “How are you settling in?”

I shrug, leaning against the doorframe. “Hasn’t sunk in yet. It’ll take time.” That’s what everyone told me. Weeks, months, maybe longer. I’ve been warned about panic attacks and trust issues, how the peace outside can be as unsettling as the chaos I lived through on the inside, how spending twenty years being told what to do and when can wreak havoc on your ability to make decisions for yourself.

“How was the homecoming party tonight?”

“It was … a lot.” I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, but thankfully no one forced me to stay.

“And the ride with your dad?” Emery watches me closely.

I shrug. “You know.”

She nods. If anyone outside of our family understands what Holt Landry can be like—the sternness, the penchant for punishment, the it’s-my-way-or-the-highway life motto—it’s Emery .

A beat of uncomfortable silence passes between us and suddenly I can’t stand the awkwardness. “Stopped at Burger King,” I blurt.

“Oh my god.” A soft chuckle sails from her lips. “Remember when we used to challenge each other to eat as many dollar Whoppers as we could?”

“Of course I do. You were half my size and somehow always won. I don’t know where you put all those things.” She’s still slender. I’ll bet I could envelop her in my arms and make her disappear, but I don’t dare try.

Humor glints in her eyes. “I’ll bet it tasted good.”

“Yeah, right up until I nearly shit my pants because I haven’t eaten fast food in so long. Dad had to pull over at a gas station so I could run to the bathroom. Glad I didn’t get a milkshake to go with it.”

Her soft laughter grows loud and infectious, and I find myself joining in. God, it feels so good to be laughing with Emery again.

Next door, headlights on a car glow. We watch as the vehicle eases down the lengthy driveway.

“At least they listen,” I offer.

“That’s because they’re afraid of me.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and a wave of déjà vu hits of a much younger version of her doing the same, and often. It’s such a small, insignificant quirk, and yet she always did it when she was nervous.

“Do you want to come inside—” I start to say at the same time that she says, “I still have your letter.”

Enough of the small talk, I guess. “It’s the way it had to be. You know that.” I take a step closer. “You didn’t need any of my mess smeared on you, tainting your future.”

“Yeah, I know.” She bites her bottom lip as she considers her next words. Or maybe as she regrets admitting her keepsake.

“And look at you now, running the whole damn thing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Hardly much of a thing. A detachment of thirteen officers and three civilians.”

“Still. It’s yours.” And it wouldn’t be had she kept a convict pen pal, especially one tied to two police officer deaths. She might not even be on the force. “I’m proud of you.”

A loaded pause hangs between us, the tension growing with each passing moment. Upstairs, the CD carousel shuffles and a new tune carries into the quiet night.

“Gosh, I don’t think I’ve heard this song since … I don’t remember when.” But Emery’s breath hitches.

“I remember when I heard it.” I level her with a steady gaze. At least, I know when I heard it with her, in this very space, the day she gave me her virginity.

Emery’s sharp eyes roam the scar across my ribs, and then the one on my face, and I sense the flood of questions she’s desperate to unleash as she holds her breath.

“Ask me whatever you want, Em. I have no secrets from you.” Well, maybe one or two.

Instead of questions, though, she launches herself against me.

I don’t shrink away, pulling her so close that I can feel every inch of her warm body, soft in all the right places. My heart hammers as I inhale the floral scent of her shampoo. With her cheek pressed against my chest, surely she can feel it.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she whispers, her hot tears dampening my bare skin both surprising and gut-wrenching.

Emotion overwhelms me and I tighten my grip, my lips finding their way first to the top of her head, then to her forehead. A string of apologies sits on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t utter them. It’s long past too late for that.