Jill Shalvis - The Street Where She Lives

In fact, he’d been untethered for just about his entire adult life, cohabiting with some of the most rural and isolated people on earth. If it weren’t for Emily, he might never have reemerged into “society” at all.

“It’s not money she needs.” Emily hesitated, and Ben waited anxiously. His daughter was not only sharp as hell, but capable of reasoning far beyond her years. And she was reasoning now, silently, which always scared him.

What could Rachel, a woman who needed no one, possibly need from him?

“She wants to go home to recuperate. But she can’t really manage by herself. So she’s going to have to go somewhere else to get better, like a convalescent home. And then I’d have to go to Aunt Melanie’s and change schools. She’s really freaking out worrying about me.”

Damn it. Damn it. He didn’t want his daughter separated from her mother, and with Rachel’s sister one hundred and twenty miles north of them in Santa Barbara, that’s exactly what would happen. “We can hire a nurse,” he said.

“She’s trying, but it’s hard to find someone.”

Once upon a time, he’d known Rachel better than anyone. She’d had it tough, in a way even tougher than he had. As a result, she trusted no one. She’d rather lie down and die than accept help from a stranger.

Actually, unless she’d changed in thirteen years, she’d rather lie down and die than accept help from him. That feeling was mutual and had been since the day she’d decided he was no longer welcome in her life. It still bugged the hell out of him how easily she’d moved on, while he’d mourned and grieved her loss for years.

But he was over her now, very over her.

“Daddy, she’s determined to do it all, for me, but she’s going to hurt herself. Please? Please won’t you come?”

His daughter had rarely asked him for anything. And yet all he could do was panic at the thought of being caged, tied down to one place-that place-for God knows how long.

“Please,” she whispered again, her voice barely audible. “Please come home.”

The hustling, bustling, urban South Village, just outside Los Angeles, had never been his “home”-he’d had no real home. But since he hadn’t told his daughter about his past-about being found nearly dead in a trash bin when he was only two days old-he couldn’t very well explain it to her now.

And just because the word home was foreign to him didn’t mean it was that way for Emily. He’d give anything, everything, to ensure she never knew what it was like not to have a home.

“We need you, Daddy.”

A new coat of perspiration beaded his forehead. “She’ll refuse.”

“She knows she has no choice. It’s you, or hiring a stranger.”

“You know how she feels about me.”

“Yes.” She cleared her throat and spoke in a perfect imitation of Rachel. “You’re ‘wild, rough and unmolded.’”

Oh, yeah, that was a direct quote. He could hear the faint smile in his daughter’s voice, the daughter far too understanding and old for her years.

His fault.

“And danger is your middle name,” she intoned, still quoting.

Hmm.

“Oh! And you’re a selfish…” She lowered her voice. “Well. You-know-what.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re also-”

“Okay, okay.” Nothing like being humbled by your own child. Maria shoved an envelope in his hand. It was grimy, but then, everything here was. Addressed to him, it looked as if it’d been to hell and back before arriving here. The postmark date was five weeks ago, which didn’t surprise him. It was amazing it had gotten to him at all.

Inside was a perfectly spotless, perfectly folded piece of white paper. The chilling words read “I’m not done with you yet.”

Ben lifted his head and covered the mouthpiece with one hand. “Did you just get this?” he asked Maria in Spanish.

She nodded her head and looked at him from guarded black eyes.

Fear clawed Ben’s belly. “Asada.”

Maria paled at the name.

“Radio the authorities,” he said, still speaking Spanish. “Make sure he was extradited to the States as planned.”

She nodded and turned away.

As helplessness coursed through him, Emily continued to chatter in his ear. “You won’t be sorry, Dad! We can all be together. You know, like a family.”

Oh, boy. He’d have to deal with that later. For now, he had bigger issues. Asada had once sworn revenge, and now somehow appeared to be free to carry out his threats.

Five weeks free, if the postmark meant anything.

For the first time he could remember, he only half listened to his daughter’s monologue about all the things they could do if he was there. Under other circumstances he’d be amused and a little intimidated by Emily’s plans to make them a cozy nuclear family.

Maria came back, speaking in rapid-fire Spanish, shocking Ben, both because she was actually speaking unprompted, and by the words coming out of her mouth.

Five weeks ago, Asada had escaped in the middle of extradition to the States, adding the murder of two guards to his rap sheet in the process, and was thought to be somewhere between North and South America.

Christ. “Emily,” he said hoarsely, gripping the phone. “Tell me about your mom’s accident.”

“She was hit by a car.”

“When?”

“A month or so ago, you’ve been unreachable until now-”

“I know. Who hit her?”

“I don’t know. The police haven’t caught anyone.”

Ben dragged in a steady breath. “Okay, listen to me. I don’t want you to open the door or talk to any strangers, do you understand?”

“Daddy.” She laughed. “I’m twelve, not four.”

“Yes, but-”

“You gave me this talk years ago, remember? Don’t worry.”

“Emily-”

“Just say you’ll come back here to be with us while Mom gets better.” She hesitated, then went for the kill. “I love you, you know.”

Ah, hell. He was such a goner.

And he was going to South Village, California.

“I love you, too, baby. With all my heart. Now stay safe.” Please, God. “I’ll be there fast as I can catch a plane.”

EVEN AT THE tender age of five, Rachel knew what moving day meant. A new room, a new nanny, all of her toys in new places. She didn’t want to go, not again, neither did her sissie, but what they wanted didn’t matter.

“Goddamn it girl, suck it up.” This from her father. “Go find your mother if you’re going to snivel.”

Her mother waved her nearly empty glass of that stuff that looked like water but smelled bad-it would be years before Rachel came to know vodka was her mother’s drink of choice-and said, “Don’t look at me, there’s nothing I can do.”

A common refrain, one Rachel had learned to live by. With no more control over this move than the last one, or the one before that, she sat on the step, hugged her doll close and waited for the movers.

“Rachel.”

She tried to blink the porch into focus, but suddenly she wasn’t five years old anymore, it’d all been just another dream. She’d had a lot of those lately. As it had for the past month, the creeping, insidious pain joined by a nauseous claustrophobia jerked her fully awake. Logically, she knew the claustrophobia was from being trussed up like a mummy. But even worse was the sweat-inducing panic she felt from her complete lack of control over anything, including her own body.

“Oh, good, you’re awake.”

She grimaced at the deceptively kind voice of the nurse who carried needles, and used them often. “You couldn’t possibly need more blood.”

“Oh, just a little.”

“No way.”

Unperturbed, the nurse sat by Rachel and took out her blood kit.

“I mean it. Don’t even think about it.” But even Rachel had to let out a laugh, though it shot a bullet of sharp pain right through her. Most of her was still covered in either soft bandages or plaster casting. She hadn’t been able to move on her own since she’d crossed the street a month ago, heading toward Café Delight to have lunch with her agent, Gwen Ariani, and instead had been mistaken for a roadblock by a speeding car.

Among other physical problems she had, her brain seemed to have the hiccups, making coordinating movement a circus event. Her doctor told her that would probably be temporary. Probably. Good God. Forget the fact she needed fine motor skills to maintain her comic strip Gracie; things weren’t looking real good for the rest of her nice, cozy life. “I am not a pincushion.”

“Spunk.” The short, dark-haired nurse named Sandy nodded approvingly. “Give ’em hell, girl.” She swabbed Rachel’s arm, but had the good grace to look apologetic as she wielded the needle. When she was done, she patted Rachel’s hand-bandaged to the tips of her still healing fingers. “Oh, and hey, good news. Most of the bandages come off today. Dr. Thompson will be here this morning.”

“And how about the casts?” Rachel found herself coming to life for the first time that day. That month.

“You’re going to go from plaster to air casts.”

“What’s the difference?”

“You’ll be more mobile and lightweight. It’s a good thing.” Sandy headed for the door. “Now, don’t you worry your pretty little head over any of the details. I’ll be back with the doctor in a few.”

Rachel studied the ceiling, her new hobby. There were eighty-four ceiling tiles in the room. She’d worry her pretty little head all right-the “pretty” part no longer applying, of course. She’d worry because she knew. They would release her, maybe as early as the end of the week, but it didn’t mean freedom.

For at least a couple of months she needed help, a fate worse than death as far as she was concerned. She’d learned her love of control from her overly controlled, overly authoritative, overly guarded childhood. That she would need someone to help dress her, help her move around, help her in every way, was extremely…frightening.