I pondered if the reason Jericho was having trouble sleeping had to do with me as I took my time in the shower. It might not have been super late, but the exhaustion clinging to my bones said otherwise. Whatever Jericho and I needed to talk about, I decided it would have to wait until morning.
Feeling refreshed, I stepped from the bathroom sometime later, wrapped in nothing but a towel, only to freeze in momentary terror when the shadows near my bedroom door moved. My heart didn’t stop trying to flee my chest until I finally recognized the tall, slim figure they belonged to.
“Jericho?”
I immediately tensed when those silver eyes seemed to look right through me. To add insult, he walked away without responding, and I frowned as I watched him go.
Something was wrong.
His slow steps were heavy as if he were in a trance. I called his name again when he reached the end of the hall and again received no response. As confusion and alarm battled each other, I debated alerting Houston or Loren.
Rich disappeared as he turned down another hallway, and the fear of leaving him alone decided for me.
I hurried after my drummer, closely trailing him down the long hallway until we reached the grand staircase leading to the first floor. Every so often, I’d call his name, but I never dared touch him, and I didn’t know why.
Still ignoring me, Jericho headed toward the arched doorway and the stairs that led to the tunnels underneath. I quietly followed him down, the stone steps rough and cold beneath my bare feet and my exposed skin chilled by the unrelenting draft. Together, we walked through one of the tunnels partially lit by sconces until we reached the practice room that doubled as their man cave. The rest of the tunnels led all over, but this was the sole entrance into the tower.
Wondering if he’d led me here purposely, I hesitated only a moment before following him inside. If he had, maybe it was to talk. I didn’t appreciate his creepy tactics, effective though they were. Words would have worked just fine.
Still so very confused, I stood warily by the door as Jericho walked deeper into the room.
He still hadn’t acknowledged me.
Instead, he stopped in the middle of the room, and I watched the back of his head turn as he looked around as if searching for something.
“Jericho,” I called, my tone firm and my patience gone.
Apprehension returned with the force of a Mack truck when he strode over to the side table next to the leather sofa, slid open the drawer, and pulled something out. I didn’t see what it was until he sat on the sofa with a pen in one hand and a set of papers that looked like they’d been folded and unfolded a hundred times clutched in the other.
His torpid gaze scanned them and the words printed on them. A moment later, Rich became agitated, gripping them hard enough to make them crinkle and ball up at one corner.
I forgot my unease as worry made my feet carry me closer to him. “Talk to me, Rich.”
My mind began to turn when he gave no reaction to my desperate plea. None. And then it all clicked into place.
He wasn’t ignoring me. He couldn’t hear me.
Because Jericho wasn’t even awake.
He was sleepwalking.
My suspicions were confirmed when, despite the anger he displayed only a moment ago, he calmly placed the papers on top of the black trunk they used as a coffee table, brought the pen to the material, and began writing. He made slow, lazy loops as he signed what I guessed was his name since he was done rather quickly.
Then…as if nothing had occurred…he stood from the sofa.
Jericho’s mind was still on autopilot when he ambled by me. Even though I was worried, I didn’t follow or call after him.
I watched him go.
The moment I was alone, my focus shifted to the papers, and I cautiously drifted closer.
One would think they were a bomb, and there were only ten seconds left to detonation. Quietly, I battled with the angel and the devil on my shoulders. I had no right to read what looked suspiciously like legal documents.
But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t, the devil draped in red whispered in my ear.
I felt like I was on autopilot, too, when I lifted the papers from the table. The first thing I noticed was Jericho’s signature, messier than usual and crammed into the top corner of the page. But it wasn’t his name signed in the wrong place that had me frozen in horror and confusion. It was everything that came after.
It was the smell of roses.
It was the emotions that I should have felt but didn’t.
Because there was only sorrow.
The grief that gripped me wouldn’t allow me to feel anything else. It wouldn’t allow me denial or frustration as I read the words again.