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“Bullshit. You can’t say something like that and expect me to turn around and drive home.”
“That’s exactly what I expect,” he said. “You can’t throw a fit and expect me to explain things that are a hell of a lot bigger than just me, okay?”
“A fit? You think I’m throwing a fit?”
He inhaled like he wanted to placate her.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t bother.” She wanted to hit him. Hard. Right in the face. She knew how to throw a punch, and it would probably feel fantastic to drive her rage into something.
But she didn’t. She was bigger than that.
“Don’t talk down to me,” she said. Her hands were still in fists at her sides.
“I’m not talking down to you.” His jaw was tight, and he looked like he wouldn’t mind getting into it either. “I’m trying to protect you—”
“Screw you, Michael. You think I’m some damsel in distress? You think I want your protection? You don’t know what I can handle. You have no idea.”
“I’m not getting into a pissing match with you, Hannah.” He stepped forward, into her space. “You don’t know what you’re dealing with.”
She didn’t back away. “I know that if you can handle it, so can I. I’m so sick of men trying to protect me for my own good. My father tells me to stay away from you, but he won’t tell me why. Irish tells the chief that I’m not fit to work a scene. Now you tell me that I have to stay away from you, because it’s just not safe. Well, that’s bullshit. I’m an adult. I’m raising a child. I’m a goddamned firefighter, Michael. You don’t know what I’ve seen. You don’t know what I’ve dealt with. And if you think that I’m the type of girl to sit in a corner and paint my nails while the big, strong men do their thing, then you’re a jackass, and I don’t know why we’re wasting our time.”
She was breathing hard. So was he.
“Talk,” she said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Hannah.” His eyes had gone hard. “You don’t want any part of this—”
“Try me.”
He glared at her for the longest moment, until she was sure she’d pushed him too far and he was going to yell at her to get the hell out of here. Regret began elbowing its way into her thoughts. She wasn’t angry at Michael. Not really.
This rage was all about her father.
She realized she expected Michael to shove her out the door with dismissive words, the way her father would. To treat her like a little girl who couldn’t deal with the big, bad issues of the world.
But Michael straightened and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. “Here,” he said. “I’ll show you.”
He unlocked the screen, went to the text messages, and handed it to her.
She read the first few on the screen, and they didn’t make sense.
Right now, who is hunter, and who is prey?
Do you really think a jail cell will keep you safe? That’s funny, Michael.
As if you’d even get to a jail cell.
As if I’d let you leave this neighborhood.
The tone was chilling, even from the relative safety of a cell phone screen. Someone was stalking him? Were these messages from the man her father had killed? Why didn’t Michael want to tell her about this?
Then she stopped on the next line.
Your girlfriend is adorable how she plays fireman. Maybe I should introduce myself.
Her eyes flicked to the top of the screen to see that these texts had been sent from a random number, not from anyone in his contact list. She directed her gaze up to Michael. “Who sent these?”
“Warren Morris. The man your father shot in the woods.”
