Mal watches me carefully. “What?”
“Is this going to end? Or are we just going to keep finding out how deep this shit goes while my daughter and the woman I—” I cut myself off, clenching my jaw.
Mal’s eyes narrow slightly. “The woman you what?”
I don’t answer. Because saying it? Admitting it? That would make it real. And I can’t afford that. Not right now. Not when she’s already terrified of losing Maddie, when I’m afraid of losing her—both.
Mal doesn’t push, but something shifts in his expression. Something that says he gets it. He really gets it. Has he lost someone before? That would be something I wouldn’t know. We’ve never been this close. Ever. Not even when he would hide us so my father wouldn’t find us while he was beating the hell out of Kier to keep us safe. I guess I never saw that the way I do now. They did take several beatings while the other was hiding. They did a lot even when we fought, they tried more than our mother did.
“It’s going to end, Hop. But we have to be smart.”
I grind my teeth. “That’s not good enough.”
Mal lets out a humorless chuckle. “It’s all we’ve got.”
I clench my fists, my rage curling tight in my gut. Because I don’t want to wait. I don’t want to play this fucking game.
I want to end it now.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Hopper
Mal stayed all night.
Neither one of us went to bed, but I stopped drinking around midnight, needing my head clear. Not that it helped. Nothing feels clear right now. By the time he left and I finally dragged myself upstairs, I stopped by Maddie’s room.
I wasn’t expecting to see Nysa there. She was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, curled up in the recliner next to Maddie’s bed, one arm draped over the side like she had fallen asleep reaching for her. Like she couldn’t leave. Like she didn’t trust the world enough to close her eyes anywhere else. My chest tightened at the sight.
I should have woken her. Should have brought her to bed, told her it was safe, that she could sleep somewhere more comfortable. But I didn’t. Instead, I grabbed a blanket, carefully draped it over her, and left the room without a word.
Because if I had stayed . . .
If I had let myself touch her, even just to brush the hair from her face, I wouldn’t have been able to stop. Not then, or ever. And I can’t afford to break right now. After my shower, I head back downstairs. I make coffee, the rich, bitter scent filling the kitchen, the only thing that might keep me sane.
Steam curls from the mug as I press my palms around it, letting the heat seep into my skin. For a second, just a brief second, I let myself breathe. Then I step outside. It’s still dark, but early enough for me to start working.
But then, something doesn’t feel right. Instantly, I know that something is very wrong. It’s not the usual morning stillness of the ranch, not the way the sky is still a deep, inky blue waiting to be streaked with the earliest light of dawn. Nope. It’s something else—a feeling I can’t quite shake, like something has already gone wrong before the day has even started.
I move toward my truck, still groggy from sleep, rubbing a hand over my face. The barn lights are still on. Everything looks normal. But then I see it.
A paper Polaroid, taped to the driver’s side door. It’s actually a Polaroid. The breath in my chest turns cold. My feet come to an abrupt stop. For a moment, I don’t move. I just stare at it. The tiny white frame, the slightly curled edges, the image in the center frozen in time.
It’s Nysa. She’s standing on the porch of her grandmother’s house, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold something together—is that the little stuffed pony? The light from the house glows behind her, illuminating the tense lines of her face.
Whoever took this . . . they were there, watching her, her reaction. They knew.
I rip the Polaroid from the door, gripping it so tightly the edges bend. My pulse is a drum in my ears, a hard, rhythmic pounding that drowns out everything else.
This is a message. Is it a warning?
They are sure telling us they’re close. Even with all the security they can still get to us. They’re watching closely.
By the time I make it back inside, I’ve shoved the Polaroid into my pocket, but it doesn’t stop the anger simmering beneath my skin. It’s a slow burn, an aching kind of rage that settles deep in my bones. I should call Malerick, he needs to know.
But I find Nysa is in the kitchen, already awake, moving around like she’s trying to stay busy. Her hair is wet and she’s now wearing one of my flannels over her shirt. She looks up when I enter, and I know instantly that she can tell something’s wrong.
“What is it?” she asks, setting down the spoon she was stirring with.
