Page 117 of When a Soul Cries

Holding her baby.

Terrified.

And somehow still telling me she was fine.

My hands tightened around the steering wheel.

“Rome?”

Sol’s soft voice pulled my attention toward her.

I glanced over and immediately saw the uncertainty in her face. Her eyebrows were slightly drawn together, and she had shifted closer to the passenger door. She wasn’t looking at me like I had done something wrong.

She was looking at me like she was waiting for me to judge or blame her.

That realization made me loosen my grip on the wheel.

“Don’t do that,” I said quietly.

Her forehead creased. “Do what?”

“Look at me like you think I’m judging you.”

Sol dropped her gaze to the baby.

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I’m just tired, Rome.”

“I know.”

That was the damn problem.

She looked beyond tired.

She looked used up.

Like life had been taking pieces from her for so long that she’d stopped expecting anybody to put anything back.

After another moment of silence, she adjusted the baby higher against her chest and cleared her throat. “Can you just take me back to the motel?”

“No.”

Her head snapped around so quickly that a few curls fell across her forehead. “Excuse me?”

“No,” I repeated, keeping my voice calm. “I’m not taking you back there.”

“Rome, you said—”

“I know what I said.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for the first time since I’d found her, I saw some of that attitude I remembered from Cash Market. Under any other circumstances, I probably would’ve smiled.

“I need to go back,” she insisted, sitting straighter.

“Why?”