I meet her eyes through the open window. "She is if no one else is looking out for her."
Matthew starts the engine from directly beside us. "We'll figure it out. But not tonight. Tonight we focus on Morgan."
I know he's right. But as we drive home, I can't shake the image of that little girl, the way she'd watched her father with wary eyes when she thought no one was looking. The way she'd clung to Morgan.
Kids know things. Even when they can't put words to it.
"I'm calling Greyson," I say as we pull into our driveway. "The club has connections with CPS."
Morgan looks at me, worry etched across her face. "You really think it's that bad?"
"I think we've seen enough to know something's wrong with him mentally." I reach for her hand. "But we'll be careful. For Charlie's sake."
Later that night, as Morgan sleeps between us, I stare at the ceiling and make a silent promise to the little girl with the too small shoes. Who is wanting her father's approval.
chapter five
Trenton
I'm still staring at the ceiling when I feel Morgan stir beside me. The moonlight cuts through our bedroom window, painting silver stripes across her sleeping face. Even in the darkness, I can make out the small furrow between her brows, the tension she carries even in sleep.
Matthew's arm is draped across her waist, his breathing deep and even on her other side. The three of us have settled into the same arrangement we always find, her back curved into his chest, her head tucked under my chin, as though the years apart changed nothing about how our bodies remember each other.
But tonight feels different.
The image of Charlie Harris won't leave my mind, her too small shoes, the way she'd looked at her father when she thought no one was watching. The desperate way she'd hugged Morgan.
I've seen that look before. In Kandahar, on a boy who'd watched us search his father's house for the third time in a month, who handed me back a piece of candy like it could hurt him.
Morgan's breathing changes. I watch as her eyes flutter open, finding mine in the darkness.
"You're still awake," she whispers.
"Couldn't sleep."
She shifts, careful not to disturb Matthew. Her hand finds mine beneath the sheets. "Thinking about Charlie?"
I nod, though I know she can barely see me. "Something's wrong in that house."
"I know." Her voice is small, vulnerable in a way she rarely shows anyone but us. "But what can we do? He hasn't done anything illegal."
"Not yet." I turn to face her fully, our foreheads nearly touching. "But the way he looks at you."
"I've been careful," she assures me. "Never alone with him. Never giving him any reason to think?—"
"It doesn't matter what you do," I tell her, keeping my voice low. "Men like that, they don't need encouragement. They create narratives in their heads."
Matthew stirs, his arm tightening around Morgan's waist. "Everything okay?" he mumbles, still half asleep.
"Go back to sleep," Morgan tells him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. "We're just talking."
He drifts off again, his breath deepening. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, the complete trust in the way he surrenders to sleep beside us.
"When did it start?" I ask Morgan. "The feeling of being watched?"
She's quiet for a long moment. "About two months ago. Small things at first. Papers on my desk moved, my coffee mug not where I left it."
My jaw tightens. "And you didn't tell us?"
