Do I throw this thing out or leave it where it is?
I think of Ella’s pale face. The way she crawled toward me. The hundred other small things she did that beg for protection. That beg for a second chance. I’m not going to fuck this up for her. A powerful urge makes me stand up from the couch. I need to protect her.
I picture her here, facing off with Cade as he questions her about the bottle and how she got it and if she has more alcohol. He’d insist on a session with her and the Rockford Center professionals. Her cheeks would flush, and her eyes would dart to mine, and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I wouldn’t be able to deny her an escape, even if this is what I’m being paid to do.
Fuck. Fuck.
Taking long, deliberate strides, I go into the kitchen and throw it out. Bury it deep in the trash can. We’ve cleared the house, so no one is checking the garbage. And no one will check this time. The deceit burrows into my chest and throbs there like a kind of infection, but what the hell else am I supposed to do?
My options are to call for backup, document this transgression, or take care of it myself.
I’m choosing door number three.
Four-count breaths. Four of them. If the situation worsens, I will follow protocol. But tonight I’m going to allow her this one thing. This one last barrier between Ella and the world we’ve created for her. I’ll gift her this secret.
Which means …
Back in the rec room, I open my laptop. It hums to life, the keys cool under my fingers. It’s been off for most of my shift, but it boots up immediately like it’s been waiting for me. In a way, it has.
I go into the program that manages the security cameras. It takes a surprisingly small number of clicks to erase the two hours of footage. That footage includes our conversation, me finding the bottle for the first time, and me carrying Ella upstairs in my arms.
Guilt tightens my throat. I don’t know what to feel more guilty about—doing my job in an unorthodox way, or the things I’m feeling for the woman sleeping upstairs. It’s a storm of guilt. It’s an old wound ripped open, over and over again.
When the files are gone, I check the feeds.
Ella sleeps peacefully in her room.
There’s no other movement in the house. Damon won’t be here for several hours.
Which gives me plenty of time for more research. No matter what I said to Damon, I won’t be reading that file. Especially not now when I promised her I wouldn’t. The drinking … however, is something I had already noticed from the videos the other night. There might be evidence of a substance abuse problem. It wouldn’t be shocking. She wouldn’t be the first person in the world to self-medicate.
The initial search turns up nothing. Not even a hint. Nothing indicating the existence of any sealed files.
Searching takes up most of the space in my mind. I don’t take my mind off of Ella completely—that would be reckless, and a dereliction of duty. But I do allow myself a calm focus on the search. I ignore my aching cock and my pounding heart and keep typing different phrases and terms, all of them paired with Ella’s name.
When nothing comes, I research my options with her. The therapy I once had and the steps I took back then compared to what’s available to me now.
All the while, she sleeps. If she dreams, I hope it’s of me.
“Morning.”
I curse under my breath but manage not to reach for the laptop. “Make a little noise coming in, would you?” I look up into Damon’s face, intending to make this a joke.
His usual smile is gone. His expression is dead serious, and his dark eyes travel over me on the couch and my laptop sitting in front of me. “Everything go all right last night?”
“Yes.” Now I do reach for the computer and close the top with as much casual indifference as I can muster. “Ella’s still sleeping. She slept most of the night after we had a brief conversation. I don’t have any other notes.”
“You sure it went all right?” Damon’s brow furrows a little. He doesn’t hide the suspicion in his gaze.
For a moment, I think of telling him. I could open my mouth and do it right now. I could say I was supposed to be giving her emotional support, and I didn’t cross any lines. Except in my own goddamn head.
Damon, of all people, would understand. Hell, he’s even kept secrets for me in the past. But telling anyone is a risk I’m not willing to take.
“I’m sure,” I tell him. “It was an uneventful night.”