Bear made himself step back. One step. Two. Until he was standing near the sink with nowhere to go and nothing to do with his hands.
Boone followed him.
“You’re bleeding through your boot.”
Bear looked down. The leather was dark with blood, a wet patch spreading across the toe. He’d been putting weight on it without registering the pain, and now that Boone had pointed itout he could feel it — a deep throb that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He ignored it.
Across the street, an officer was walking the perimeter with a German Shepherd. Bear watched the dog work — nose down, moving in a grid pattern, the handler following.
Atlas should have been here. Should have been tracking Greta’s scent, leading them straight to wherever she’d been taken. But Atlas was at Lila’s clinic with a broken jaw and Bear was here, useless, watching strangers do a job that would take too long.
He started pacing. Three steps to the sink, turn, three steps to the table, turn. Boone moved with him, close enough to block him on the next turn. His chest was too tight and his lungs weren’t pulling in enough air and his brain kept looping back to Greta unconscious, wrapped in a tarp, thrown into a truck bed like cargo.
“You’re spiraling,” Boone said.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding, pacing, and ten seconds from doing something that’ll get you arrested.” Boone’s voice was low, calm, the tone he used when he was talking someone off a ledge. “That’s not fine.”
Bear’s jaw worked. The truth of it landed heavy in his chest.
“I can’t just stand here.”
“I know.” Boone’s hand came up and gripped Bear’s shoulder, firm and grounding. “But you’re no good to her like this. Slow down. Breathe. Let Ghost work.”
Bear closed his eyes. He tried to pull in a full breath and couldn’t get past halfway. Tried again. On the third attempt his lungs expanded and the tightness in his chest eased a fraction.
When he opened his eyes, Logan was watching him from across the room.
The kid’s expression was careful, guarded, but there was something underneath it that looked like fear. Not fear of Bear — fearforhim. Fear that his dad was about to come apart and Logan wouldn’t know how to put him back together.
Bear made himself hold his son’s gaze. Made himself stand still instead of pacing.
Logan stood. He crossed the room slowly, his hands in his pockets, and stopped a few feet away. Close enough to talk without the whole room hearing, far enough that Bear could breathe.
“Dad.”
Bear made himself look at his son.
“Please don’t do anything stupid.”
Bear’s throat closed.
“I know you want to.” Logan’s voice was low, careful, the words coming out one at a time like he’d been rehearsing them while he waited. “I know if you walked out that door right now, you’d find someone to hurt. Hank, or some random guy in a bar, or yourself. I know.”
Bear didn’t trust his voice.
“I need you here.” Logan swallowed. “Greta needs you functional. Not in a cell. Not in a hospital. Not…” He stopped. His eyes shone. “Not gone, Dad. Please.”
The wordpleaselanded harder than the whole sentence. Bear’s breath left him in a rush and he had to lock his knees to stay upright.
Logan was fifteen years old and he was asking his father not to leave him alone.
“Okay,” Bear said. The word came out rough but steady. “Okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Logan’s shoulders dropped two inches. He nodded once, then turned and went back to the table, dropping into his chair beside Johanna.
Boone’s hand was still on Bear’s shoulder. He squeezed once, then let go.
