Perfect.
Love that for me.
I brush leaves from my hair and creep toward the window. Gravel bites beneath my palms when I kneel under it. I tilt my head, barely breathing.
Voices spill out.
Male voices.
“Salazar wants them moved before dawn.”
My blood turns cold.
“Too much attention in Black Pines,” another man says. “He doesn’t want the girls here after tonight.”
Girls.
My stomach drops.
I press one hand over my mouth.
Brianna could be one of the girls.
The world blurs for a second. I see her at sixteen, sitting on my bed in my oversized sweatshirt, crying because some girl at school called her trash. I see myself brushing her hair back and promising I’d handle it.
I always handled it.
Our family was complicated before I even knew what complicated meant. My mother left when I was little, and Dad raised me alone until he married Brianna’s mom. She was a widow. Brianna was the bright-eyed girl who showed up with too-big feelings, too many empty spaces, and a talent for making me feel like I was the only person who could fill them. Then our parents fell so hard into each other they forgot to look down and notice us. By the time I turned eighteen, they were more gone than home, chasing trips and fresh starts and whatever made them feel young.
So I packed Brianna’s lunches. Bought her makeup. Gave her my clothes when she cried that nothing of hers looked right. Paid her phone bill when she swore she’d pay me back and somehow made me feel cruel for asking.
I raised her more than anyone else did. And I am not leaving without answers.
Something clicks somewhere near the rear terrace.
I jerk away from the window, stumble backward, and hit something solid.
A hand clamps over my mouth.
An arm bands around my waist and yanks me back against a body so hard and warm my panic explodes.
I thrash.
The arm tightens.
“Quiet,” a low voice growls against my ear.
My heart nearly stops.
The voice is deep. Rough. Calm in a way that makes my fear even worse.
I stomp down on his boot.
Nothing.
I elbow his stomach.
Also nothing.
