All I can do is be the shoulder to cry on, her friend, the man who loves her and will do whatever it takes to keep her safe, to make her feel loved and protected…knowing she might never love me in return.
32
JESSICA
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
Troy eventually coaxesme out of my safe place in the guest bedroom closet. I don’t sneak a peek at the renovations in the room. It’s too painful knowing Amelia will never see it.
I clutch Angelique’s journal as I walk downstairs, Troy’s hand on the small of my back. I didn’t want to leave the journal behind in case Troy returned to the hiding space and found it. Anne needs to see it before anyone else does. I owe that to Iris.
The books I’d shoved onto the floor are back on the coffee table. I slip the journal into the bottom of the pile and sit on the couch.
Troy hands me a glass of water. I drink it, soothing my scream-scratched throat.
“So, what’s your book about?” He nods at Garrett’s writing craft books on the table. “Or are you still figuring it out?”
“A little of both.”
“What do you mean?” Troy sits next to me, and I pull my feet onto the couch, curling into him, touching as much of him as possible. My body physically aches to hold even more of him, to wrap around him, to sink into him.
He is my happy place.
My safe zone.
Even though it’s early evening, the chanting beyond the closed living-room curtains is louder than it was this afternoon. The protesters have brought back their greatest hits, along with a few new ones:
“Protect our children.”
“Convicts not welcome.”
“Make our street safe again.”
“Go back where you belong.”
I put the empty glass on the table. “I was playing around with the first chapter. I wrote it to see if I enjoy writing historical fiction.”
“Do you?”
I nod. “Very much so. Or at least so far I do.” It’s surprising just how much I enjoyed pouring myself into the story. It wasn’t easy—but that didn’t matter. Maybe it was the challenge of being someone else, of being in their headspace and exploring how they feel…maybe that’s what I loved.
“I still think it’s really cool you’re doing this,” Troy says, and my heart swells. He has been nothing but supportive of the idea ever since I told him about it. “Can I read it?”
“It’s just a short scene. I haven’t finished writing it.” What I wrote was enough to make me even more excited to keep going.
He brushes his thumb along my jaw. “I would still love to see it. Unless you think it will jinx you or something.”
“Is that the excuse Garrett gives you when you ask to read a scene from his books?”
Troy smirks, his hand dropping away from my face. “You really think my brother lets any of us see his stuff before it’s published? He sends the manuscript to his editor after he’s finished it, but that’s about all. Unless there’s a scene he wants one of his experts to check over first.”
“What kind of experts?”
“FBI agents. Criminologists. Things like that.”
“Wow, he is thorough.” I’m not sure who I could contact to make sure my details are accurate. Iris is dead. Most people who were part of the French Resistance or the SOE or who knew Angelique during that time would also be deceased.
