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Dad never told you the truth. About anything.
He was only using you.
She stepped past him softly, just resting a hand on his arm as she moved past. Her fingers were warm, gentle, the same hands that had tended his scrapes when he was little.
He almost put his hand over hers, not wanting her to leave.
But then she let go. “Call me if you need something. I can bring over anything else you want.”
“Fine.”
And just like that, she walked out of the house.
He had to stop himself from going after her. It didn’t help that he knew the Merricks were in the house, had heard every word, and were probably waiting for him to come out of the kitchen.
He went out the back door and dropped into one of the porch chairs.
The air still held a chill, and the clouds overhead suited his mood. He closed his eyes and tried to let the tension drain out of his shoulders.
The solitude left him with too much room for thinking, however, and he felt worse out here. Again, he found himself wishing for a pair of wraps and a heavy bag—or an opponent and a set of mats.
When the sliding door opened, he braced himself for another lecture from Michael.
So he was surprised when a woman’s voice said, “Can I join you?”
His eyes snapped open. Hannah, the girl from the kitchen. The firefighter. Michael’s new girlfriend.
She was pretty, slender and casual without looking delicate. Hunter could see solid muscle in her arms, and he knew from his escapades with Gabriel that using firefighting equipment was no joke. She wasn’t old, but there was nothing young about the weight in her eyes.
She’d seen a lot. He could tell.
She’d been at the carnival last night. Gabriel had said something about her wanting to put him on a helicopter to shock trauma. Had she seen Calla? Would any of the bodies be identifiable after the fire?
He didn’t want to ask.
She was still looking at him, a hand on the back of the adjacent Adirondack chair.
“Sure,” he said.
She dropped into the chair beside him and stared up at the same sky. Her breathing was calm and even. He had no idea what she was doing out here.
“You know,” she said without looking at him, “we once got this call for a guy whose girlfriend ripped all the piercings right out of his eyebrow.”
“Sick.” He paused. “What did it look like?”
“Blood everywhere. He had a safety pin or something run through four hoops, and she grabbed it and yanked it off. They all came out.”
He glanced over, intrigued that her voice held the same horror and fascination that he was feeling. “Were they fighting?”
“Ah . . . no. In the ‘moment,’ I guess you could say.” She was smiling.
He looked back at the sky. “That’s a hell of a moment.” “There was another guy who’d pierced his . . . ah . . .”
“I get it.”
“Yeah, that was ripped out during a fight. I think I learned a whole new vocabulary on that call. But that’s no comparison to the guy who took a Sawzall to his—”
“Not that I’m complaining or anything,” said Hunter, trying to stop that particular story. “But did you really come out here to tell me ambulance stories?”
