Rumor (Renegades #4)(13)
Author: Skye Jordan

Josh pictured the team wandering around in the background, collecting equipment, checking gear. Knew there would be an intense silence over the camp as they all focused on the mission. A sustained adrenaline level almost tangible in the air. Hell, he missed that. And a hot streak of envy only added to the mess in Josh’s chest.

He followed Grace through town at a safe distance. She was headed toward Balboa Park, away from the high school where she taught the cheerleading squad, away from the club.

“What about the strip club?” Beck asked.

Fuck. Josh stopped at a red light with Grace four cars in front of him and squeezed his eyes shut. He just couldn’t break this kind of news to Beck over the phone. Besides, Josh was realizing it wasn’t any of Beck’s damn business—any more than it was Josh’s. But…shit. This nagging sense of loyalty felt like a goddamned trick monkey on his back.

“She’s not stripping,” he said. “I don’t know what that guy thought he saw. I’m telling you he had to be plastered off his ass, or maybe he was just trying to rile you—”

“Thank God. I didn’t know what I was going to do if she was working at a strip joint.”

“I hate to keep pointing this out to you, buddy,” Josh said, growing annoyed. “But it’s not your call anymore.”

“So, is she seeing anyone?”

“Are you listening to me?” Josh lifted both hands off the steering wheel in a what-the-fuck gesture. This was that dense part of Beck that made Josh crazy. “What the hell difference does that make?”

“Relax. I’m just asking.”

The line of cars started moving again, but an odd and deepening nagging sensation played at the base of his neck. Josh suddenly realized he didn’t know if she was seeing anyone. He’d assumed she wasn’t because of what happened between them, but… The possibility that she had a guy in the wings was an uncomfortable thought.

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully, more to himself than to Beck. “I don’t think so.”

“How does she look?” Beck asked.

Josh’s temper flared again. “What the fuck? What’s going on with you? How could that possibly matter?”

“Are you PMSing?” Beck laughed. “I just haven’t seen her in forever, and she stopped sending me pictures—”

“That’s because you’re divorced, dude. D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D, divorced.”

“Listen, we’re lifting off. I gotta go.” His tone was lighthearted. He was blowing off everything Josh had said with his signature this-will-work-itself-out attitude. That might have lowered stress in the field, but Josh was getting a glimpse of how fucking annoying it must have been for Grace to deal with here at home. “I’ll check in when I can. Later, dude. And thank you.”

Beck disconnected, and Josh sat there with his buddy’s thank-you weighing on his conscience. Beck wouldn’t be thanking him if he’d known what Josh had let himself do last night, let alone what he’d wanted to do…

Grace made another turn, and while Josh had been playing guilt games with his brain, she’d led him straight to Twenty-eighth Street. He dropped back so she wouldn’t spot his car in the quiet residential neighborhood, one that was 180 degrees from the one she’d just left. Here, every house was decorated with lights and lawn ornaments. Every home had a Christmas tree filling the front window. When she pulled into the driveway of a large home, Josh parked along the curb of a cross street. She hopped out of her car, jogged the steps, and opened a tall gate in the wrought iron, no-climb fence surrounding the property.

Lights had been wound around the top of the fence, and every inch of the home had some touch of Christmas added—lights along the eaves and roofline, garlands along the porch banister, wreaths on every door, including the garage.

But that fence struck Josh as odd. Every other home on the street was just as well manicured, just as large, but not one had a security fence. He stood from his car and strolled closer. Most Craftsmans were called bungalows for a reason. But this one wasn’t small, quaint, or cozy. The house rambled, filling a huge lot with pristine tan siding, charcoal gray roof, and a shiny hunter-green front door.

He angled to read a large sign posted on the fence.

Safe Haven Guest Home.

An uncomfortable pressure built in his chest. He stopped, stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, rolling the name around in his head several times. “What the hell…?”

Pulling out his phone, he googled the name along with San Diego, tapped the page that came up first, and knew he had the right website by the image of the home on the main page. The short description read: A loving, secure, assisted-living program focused on memory care. Lovely private rooms, structured activities, and experienced staff.

“Memory care.” He shook his head, still confused, then dialed Pete back. “What the hell is memory care?”

“Sup boss?” Pete answered.

“That address for Carolyn Ashby,” he said. “Was that her work address?”

“I don’t think so. Hold on a sec…” Rustling papers sounded over the line, more keys clicking, and every passing moment developed a whole new layer of sickening dread in Josh’s gut. “No. That is her home address. She has no work address.”

Josh rested his forehead in his hand. Fuck. Everything Grace was doing suddenly made sense. Perfect sense.

“Oh my God.” He rubbed his hand down his face. He couldn’t have fucked up any worse. “Shit, Pete, can you do me a quick favor? That address is for a private home care facility for something called memory care—”

“That’s a nice way of saying Alzheimer’s or dementia. My grandmother went to a home like that.”

Josh’s shoulders sagged. His brow furrowed. Nine months. Grace had been suffering and struggling with this for nine months? Alone?

“Can you find out how much the facility costs?”

“Looking. But I can tell you it’s expensive,” Pete said, fingers tap-tap-tapping. “And insurance doesn’t cover it. I remember because my mom was my grandma’s only living relative, and the cost nearly bankrupted our family.”

“Just…” Josh rubbed his eyes. “Text it to me, would you?”

“Done. Later.”

Pete disconnected, but Josh stood there a long time, letting everything gel in his mind. There were still questions, but the big ones had pretty much just been answered—Grace was working at the club to pay for her mother’s care.