Page 16 of Joker

That man looks like violence in boots.

And somehow that does not scare me as much as it probably should.

The room goes still the second I step inside.

Not loud-still. Not dramatic. Just that particular kind of silence that settles when everybody in it understands something important is happening and nobody quite knows what to do with it yet.

The woman stands first. The kid doesn’t leave her side.

And I stop just inside the doorway with one hand still half-curled around the knob because for the first time since Logan hauled me out of bed and handed me a mystery job wrapped in bad instructions, I finally understand why the man had been so cagey.

Because this is not a package. This is not cash or intel or a weapons pickup. This is a woman in a cheap blonde wig and oversized shirt with eyes too sharp and too tired for somebody who can’t be much older than her late twenties. And this is a little girl clutching a stuffed bunny with one hand and the woman’s leg with the other like the world might tilt wrong if she lets go.

I don’t move right away. The woman doesn’t either. The kid definitely doesn’t.

Grinder, president of the Louisiana chapter and one of the bigger sons of bitches I’ve had the pleasure of dealing with across chapter lines, stands beside me like he hasn’t just rearranged the entire shape of the job Logan sent me on.

My irritation spikes hot and immediate. Not because I can’t handle it. Because I should’ve known what the hell I was walking into before I crossed two state lines and rolled onto another chapter’s property expecting a box and getting a woman and a child instead.

I turn my head just enough to look at Grinder. “You wanna tell me why the fuck nobody thought this was worth mentioning?”

His expression doesn’t change. “Because if you knew before you got here, that was one more place the truth existed.”

I let that sit for a beat. I don’t like the answer. I also can’t argue with the logic. That only pisses me off more.

So instead of wasting breath on it, I look back at the woman.

She’s trying hard not to show it, but she’s wound so tight I can practically hear the strain in it. Her shoulders are stiff beneath the oversized shirt. Her fingers are white where they grip the strap of her purse. The cheap blonde wig is tucked under a baseball cap pulled low, but even with all that trying-to-look-like-nobody bullshit, there is nothing forgettable about her.

Her eyes are what hit first.

Amber.

Not light brown. Not hazel. Amber.

They catch the dim lamp light in the room and hold it in a way that doesn’t make any damn sense on a face that guarded. Eyes like that should belong to somebody softer. Somebody easier. Somebody who hasn’t been looking over her shoulder so long it’s become muscle memory.

Instead, they’re set in a face that is trying very hard not to betray anything.

She’s beautiful in a way that doesn’t feel polished. More like something half-hidden and worn thin by too much pressure. The kind of beauty that sneaks up on you because it’s buried under exhaustion, fear, and the fact that she’s clearly doing everything in her power to take up less space than she naturally would.

The little girl presses closer into her thigh.

I drag my attention down to the kid.

Big eyes. Tiny body. Little fist twisted in the fabric of that oversized shirt and the other hand gripping a well-loved stuffed bunny by one floppy ear. The rabbit’s fur is worn down in patches from too much holding, too much sleeping, too much being dragged from one place to another.

The kid’s gaze lands on me and stays there. Not curious. Not friendly. Assessing. Suspicious in the quiet way kids get when they’ve already learned to read rooms they shouldn’t have to understand.

That lands somewhere ugly in my chest.

I don’t like it. I like it even less when I realize Logan absolutely knew I’d react like this, which means he used that on purpose.

Motherfucker.

Grinder steps farther into the room, his presence shifting the air enough that the woman’s shoulders tighten for a different reason this time. She glances at him, then back at me, and I catch the moment she’s trying to decide whether I look like somebody she can trust.

Smart girl. Wrong world. Trust is a luxury around here.