Not the hovel that stood before him.
The chic wooden blinds that used to cover the windows had been replaced by heavy curtains that obviously hadn’t been opened in months. Barely any illumination from the sun made it through, casting the entire place in an eerie light. Every flat surface was piled with papers and files and stuff, not to mention layers of dust. There was nowhere to sit even if you wanted to.
Obviously, Juliet hadn’t done any entertaining in her house recently. It looked as if she hadn’t even been here herself. Had she moved somewhere else and left her furniture behind?
But when Evan turned and looked into the kitchen, which was located across the small foyer from her living room, he realized that wasn’t the case. The kitchen was in slightly better shape. No food was left out, and dishes were washed and sitting on the drying rack, but there were newspapers and books stacked on the small table. Obviously, she did use this kitchen, but evidently ate while standing at the counter.
Evan scrambled to understand what he was seeing. Juliet said nothing and closed the door they’d just walked through. And then began locking the most locks Evan had ever seen at a single entrance.
There were at least a half dozen that bolted her door into the wall. He watched with an aching chest as she rapidly clicked each lock into place—a testament of how often she did it.
Yes, Juliet did live here, in this house, in its current state. But you couldn’t call it her home. You couldn’t have called this anybody’s home.
Juliet still didn’t speak, just walked into the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle for each of them, then headed down the hall into one of the two bedrooms. Not hers, but the room she’d made into her home office.
This room was obviously used often. Her desk, complete with lamp and computer, was like her office at Omega: meticulous and clean, the exact opposite state of her living room. No dust, no piles of junk. At the other end was a small couch, a pillow and blanket thrown over it.
Juliet pointed to the couch. “I sleep there every once in a while.”
Evan supposed that sleeping some nights on a couch might not be unusual for a person who had been through what she had. Heaven knew, he had his own nightmares about that day. He imagined Juliet’s were much worse, since she had lived through it.
“Nobody can blame you for having bad nights, Jules. Sleeping on the couch every once in a while happens to everyone.”
She studied him for a moment, then crossed into her master bedroom, motioning for him to follow. There were heavy drapes over the window in here, also, allowing in very little light. Her queen-size bed, with its beautiful four posters—Evan remembered how delighted Juliet had been when she’d found it at a secondhand store about five years ago—obviously hadn’t been slept in for months, maybe longer. Like the kitchen table and furniture in the living room, it was covered with stuff: jackets, boxes, papers.
But Evan was totally unprepared when Juliet pulled open the door to her walk-in closet and pointed down at the floor—to a makeshift bed of a couple blankets and a pillow. Next to it lay a rifle—a .308 Winchester, it looked like—and a Glock G42, similar to the handgun Juliet used as an agent.
“That’s where I sleep—attempt to sleep—almost all the time. I haven’t slept in a bed since the attack.”
She turned and walked out of the closet and her bedroom. Evan remained, staring at the pitiful pallet that spoke volumes about Juliet’s solitude and fear.
He’d had no idea. None of them had known Juliet was struggling to such a degree. All of them knew she spent a lot of time at work and hadn’t been home much. Looking around now, Evan could see why. No one would want to spend much time here. And obviously, a lot of the time she spent here was in fear.
Evan’s heart broke just thinking about it. But anger wasn’t far behind.
He followed her into the kitchen, where she leaned against the sink.
“So, obviously, I’m not fit for duty. You know I’ve been talking to therapists for months, all different types, but never seem to mention this.” Juliet laughed nervously and gestured with her hand. “This is barely a step up from that reality show about hoarding. Criminals probably wish I would become an agent again, because obviously, I’m damaged beyond—”
Evan pulled her into his arms. He didn’t care if the movement might startle her or make her tense. He just wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. Not anymore.
By God, never again would she have to go through any of this alone. If she wasn’t getting better, then Evan, not to mention her brothers, would help her. In any way she needed, whatever way she needed.
“Jules, why didn’t you tell us?” Evan whispered against her hair, glad that she didn’t try to pull away. “We all knew you didn’t like to be touched, but none of us knew you were struggling so much here at home.” Evan couldn’t wrap his head around it.
“I didn’t know what to say.”
“None of us expect you to just get over what happened, but hasn’t it gotten any better at all? This place…” Evan glanced into the living room. “It’s like you’re waiting for another attack.”
“That’s what I feel like whenever I’m here. Like I’m not safe.” Juliet removed herself from his arms and pointed at the locks. “Although it would seem impossible with all that.”
“Jules, why are you still so afraid? The man who attacked and raped you is dead. His accomplice is in federal prison. Neither of them can hurt you anymore.”
“Somebody is still out there, Evan.”
Evan
