Christmas Home (The Coming Home #6)

3. Ruther

three

Ruther

“ S ir,” my assistant said sarcastically, “are you sure this is a good idea?”

“If you ask me again, Corey, I will be forced to fire you.”

He looked at me skeptically, like he always did when I threatened to fire him, and shook his head. “You’ve already sold the Crawford City estate, and you know what happens when you start thinking about—”

I put my hand up. “I’m forty years old, and I’m tired of facing that demon over and over. Indulge me. Keep the therapists you insist I see on speed dial, but I know deep down if I don’t face this once and for all, I’ll never have peace.”

Corey shrugged in his dismissive way. The guy was a decade younger than me—tall, regal, and one hundred percent New York elite, although I knew he hadn’t come from that. But, when I’d taken him on as my personal assistant, he’d undertaken the job with relish, and to my dismay, he was now extremely involved in planning my life.

Regardless, between running a multimillion-dollar company and managing my PTSD nightmares, it helped to have someone who could hold things together.

“So, this is happening then?”

“I’m afraid so. Sorry, Corey, but you don’t have to come. I can handle it myself.”

“Pfft,” he interjected. “You’d fall apart in less than a day without me. I’ve already begun to make arrangements. Jake Hudson, the man who helped me process the sale of the estate, owns a nice hotel downtown. However, because I’m the best assistant known to man, I’ve secured you a condo adjoining the hotel. Mr. Hudson assures me it’s up to par with your accustomed lifestyle.”

I laughed. “You mean the lifestyle you are accustomed to.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, sir. I’m fully capable of talking for myself. So, when do you want to begin this terror quest?” he asked, stopping me in my tracks.

It was becoming real, and dammit, if that wasn’t probably the very thing Corey wanted me to feel. “Let’s go next week,” I said. Corey sighed and shook his head.

“As you wish, sir.”

When he was gone, I stared down at Central Park below me. I’d liquidated the family business and our real estate holdings in Pennsylvania and Tennessee after my father passed away. That’d been over two years ago, and I’d be damned if the nightmares hadn’t increased.

The therapy didn’t work, and neither did the medication. I had hoped selling all the stuff connected to my family, the old Crawford City place being at the top of that list, would end it, but no. I’d close my eyes and be back in my childhood bedroom alight by fire. Surrounding me. Burning me. Killing me all over again.

Since I’d read a self-help book my therapist recommended that said facing your fears was the best way to overcome them, I’d decided, why not? I’d go back to where the incident happened. I’d return to the scene of the crime, so to speak—my ground zero.

I’d storm the gates of hell and face the devil himself if it meant I could have a full night’s sleep again. That’s what Crawford City represented for me, my own personal hell. The devil, though? I needn’t worry about him. My dad was already dead.