"Mama, Nana's being weird with the market guy," Quin complained, nearing her busied mother as she rummaged through a cupboard.

  "Baby, what your grandmother does is up to her. You should've seen her when I was your age, and your grandfather was alive." Her mother's voice was distracted, her arms shoved deep as she cursed under her breath.

  "Well, I want him out."

  A grumbled response left the woman's lips.

  "Then tell him to leave."

  Quin quickly shook her head, her face forming a look of disgust. "That's rude, Mama."

  Her mother shot her a bored glare. "Yeah, no crap. You invited him in, Quindell. Go! Be a good host and stop bothering me. Or you'll be the one getting kicked out."

  "Fine, but don't be mad if Nana forces me to go out with this guy," Quin muttered, storming back toward the dining room the best she could.

  "It'd get you out of my house," her mother tossed back, the words cutting sharper than Quin wanted to admit.

  Her grandmother intercepted before Quin could wallow in it. "Quindell, dear. Did you know he went to your school?" Her eyes traced the man once more; he looked older than Michael. She'd wondered if he knew of him.

  Quin frowned, shaking her head. "No. When did you graduate?"

  "'64." They'd been packing to move, still.

  "'67," Quin nodded stiffly, already aching to escape the small talk. "Surprised I never saw you." She forced a thin smile, unable to hold back her sarcasm as she turned toward the stairs. "Nana, I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be right back."

  She forced herself up the fourteen steep steps, counting each one until she could finally slump onto the toilet lid. Nothing dulled the throbbing in her shin. Raw and ugly, it pulsed beneath the fabric, and the thought of peeling it away to actually look made her stomach pitch. Normally she would've drowned that feeling, blurred it until it slid away. Now it sat heavy in her chest, sharp and present, with nowhere to go. She pressed her forehead against the counter, eyes squeezed shut.

  If only her knee wasn't fucked. If only this strange man hadn't appeared in her life. Quin hated the situation she put herself in, she hated the headache that threatened to break through her skull, more. With the silence, she allowed herself to think. Lyla and Michael, it never sat right with her, but now it had become apparent she had the right to be suspicious. Lyla dragged her into something, the man downstairs talking up her grandmother was a beacon to that truth. She could sneak out the window and avoid it entirely, but what use would it solve when she had to come back home and face the fact of the matter. She was thrown into the ring as a scapegoat, but by who? Lyla? Michael, maybe? She had told him about the money the same night she had been attacked. But why would he be after the money? Unless he told Jamie to steal it? He wouldn't do that though. He wanted her out of trouble, not head on into it.

  It felt like she was playing ring-around-the-rosy with her thoughts.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  Her head jerked toward the door to her father's office; her stomach sank to her toes.

  "Yes?" She tried for steady, her voice failing her like a joke.

  "Your grandmother sent me up. You've been gone awhile. You okay?" His voice was low, too casual for someone starting basic conversation.

  Her pulse jumped. Not here. Not the bathroom. Not upstairs.

  "Does my mom know you came up here?"

  "Yeah. She was sitting down when I came up." His confirmation didn't help. Her mother really left her to deal with this on her own. Quin couldn't help the frustration rise with his words, "How's the limp?" Oh, fuck off.

  Her throat tightened. She wanted to tell him her thoughts, to slam the door in his face. But the thought of hobbling down fourteen steps on that shredded leg just to get away from him made her grip the counter harder.

  "I just wanted today to be normal," she bit out. "Instead, my leg's fucked, and some stranger's in my father's office taunting me about injuries he caused when he should've given me my bag and left. If you genuinely cared, you'd go back to whatever hole you crawled out of."

  A pause. Then: "Do you need help?"

  Her stomach turned at the question. She hated that she did. Hated that he sounded like he knew it. With nothing to cloud it, the need was too bare, too obvious. She felt weak.

  She dropped her forehead to the counter. "What do you not understand? Go!"

  "Which door is yours?"

  She choked, unable to process the words that left his mouth as dread filled her.

  A moment later, his light steps crossed into her room. Then he appeared in the doorway, gaze instantly dropping to her leg as she scrambled to try and close the door on him to no avail. Backing away onto the toilet seat once he got too close.

  "Damn. I knew you fucked it up, but not this bad." His smirk lingered, sharp as a blade. "What were you even doing trynna to outrun me on a busted leg? It wasn't much of a chase to begin with, led me right to your house."

  "Are you here to help, or to make fun of me more?" Her throat felt constricted, her skin felt like it was receding into itself. She couldn't scream for help, not with him right there to clamp her mouth shut, again.

  "Can't it be both?" he drawled. He stepped inside, filling the bathroom with his presence, too close. He leaned against the sink, arms crossed, his reflection hovering over hers in the mirror. "Any first aid around, or do you keep your cabinets as empty as your excuses?"

  Jaw tight, Quin yanked open the cabinet beside her as it smacked his leg. She didn't want him here, didn't want his shadow stretching over her. But she couldn't even bring herself to touch the wound. She needed help. He looked to the opening with a mild look before to her knee.

  "You know you'll need stitches," he said casually, brushing past her to grab a bottle, his shoulder grazing hers on purpose. "Though I guess you're used to patchwork jobs, huh?"

  Her eyes clamped shut. The word alone made her head spin. "Don't talk. Just fix it."

  "All this medicine and you can't clean your own cuts," he mocked, crouching low now, his knees between hers as he inspected the injury. The soaked rags soon smeared the floor. "Pretty helpless for someone who mouths off so much."

  Her glare shot toward him, but he was already unscrewing the cap of liquid. Before she could fire back, he lifted her leg onto his thigh, the movement turning her stomach as she instinctively tried to pull away; his grip remained steady.

  The cold sting of alcohol burned straight through her nerves, dragging a choked gasp from her throat. Nothing blunted it. Nothing softened the edges as his dark orbs glanced up to her unadulterated pain.

  "You know," he murmured, dabbing the wound with a cloth, steady, amused, "if I didn't need you, I'd have sold your shit and let this rot. Would've saved me the headache of babysitting."

  "Shut up," she hissed, her fingers digging into the counter.

  "No, you shut up," he countered, pressing her knee down when she flinched. His tone softened, almost kind; but the words cut sharper. "I'm explaining why I'm here. You literally can't run away, so it'd be best to listen. You should thank me, really. Not every girl gets this kind of attention."

  Every instinct screamed to push him off, to bolt, to scream. But she couldn't even look at her own leg, and now his hands were firm on it. She was pinned to the situation.

  So, she did what she could.

  "Then stop talking to me like I'm some whore," she spat, smacking his face with the back of her hand.

  He stilled, jaw flexing and for a moment she was convinced she had just signed her will. He blinked twice as he rubbed away her hit. Then exhaled slowly, a dangerous calm. "Yeah... you didn't deserve that. Let me try again. May I explain myself? Without interruption?" He was testing her; she could sense it. His retaliation unsettled her more than the way he looked back to her knee. Like he was planning.

  Quin leaned back, arms crossed tight over her chest. Every fiber of her body wanted him gone. But if she said no, he'd stay anyway. "Fine. Talk."

  "Your friend stole from me."

  Her blood went cold. She masked it with a sneer. "And that's my problem, because?"

  His lips lifted into something unplaced as he tipped the bottle again, pouring straight across the wound. The sudden flare of pain ripped a gasp from her throat. Too unfiltered as she slapped a hand over her mouth.

  "Without interruption." She barely caught the words behind her ears piercing screech. "It was mine. And now it's on you." He leaned closer, his breath brushing her temple as he gipped the gauze tight against her wound; a shaky breath left her nose as she leaned away. "Congratulations. Looks like you're finally worth something to someone."

  She wanted to scream that it wasn't her; she had nothing to do with it. But the truth pinned her down. She could see it in his eyes, the way she couldn't see what he was truly feeling. A line spoken clearly, he wouldn't leave her alone until he got what he came for and he didn't mind torturing her in the process.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," she finally let the lie out, clinging to the only defense she had.

  He studied her face, his fingers deliberately rough as he tied the cloth. Each movement felt like needles. "Don't play dumb. You've been dodging my questions since last night. So, let's make it simple. Do I need to go after them one by one? or can you save us both the time and give me my money?"

  Her stomach clenched. She couldn't risk him dragging Lyla into this. His fingers tugged at the wrap, a sharp spike signaled up her thigh.

  "She has nothing to do with—"

  "Did I say which friend?" His smirk widened, teeth flashing, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. He leaned back just enough to look her in the eye. "You're not very good at this, are you? Daddy didn't teach you?"

  Her pulse stuttered. He already knew of Lyla. Quin spoke before she had her next thought.

  "It was snatched while I was looking around. She wasn't involved, how could she do that?"

  She couldn't see his face as he spoke, but the words slithered out close, too steady, too knowing.

  "I'll need more than you trying to convince yourself you're not an open book, sweetheart."

  "Ew, don't call me that." Her retort was instant, sharper than she intended, her leg twitching with the irritation bubbling up. Fear of his retaliation kept her rooted, though her whole body screamed to swing.

  "Or what? Who gave you the money?"

  "What money." Her voice was brittle, thin.

  The ever-familiar itch of nerves clawed back at her chest as his thumb pressed the gauze down hard against her wound. "Keep beating around the bush, I can make this leg useless." Quin's nails curled white into the bathroom counter, her jaw tight with the pain, but she didn't move. She couldn't risk it; not when he was this close. Not when Lyla's name was a landmine she couldn't afford to set off. She hated the girl, sure; but the thought of this man sinking his claws into her made Quin's stomach knot worse.

  "You forget what I have of yours," he murmured, speaking past her muffled cries, his tone dry and casual as though her pain was amusing background noise. His eyes glistened, not with compassion, but with a twisted kind of amusement at her discomfort.

  "Like they'd believe you," she hissed when the rag lifted, the air sharp against her raw skin as she exhaled breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "You look like you do it yourself."

  He didn't flinch. His mouth curled just enough to let his words cut.

  "Yeah? At least I'm not one, junkie."

  The word hit like a blade. Quin gasped, fury cutting past her restraint as her free foot snapped upward. Once. Twice. Her heel aimed wild, desperate, toward his head as it landed shaky blows to his shoulder.

  "Take that back!" she spat, yanking her leg back to her chest.

  "Stop kicking me. That hurts," he growled, more irritated than pained.

  She kicked harder, now aiming for his chest, until she realized too late; he still had the upper hand.

  He caught her leg fast, iron fingers locking around her ankle. With a sudden push, he had her thigh pressed firmly against his chest, her foot hovering inches from his face as her good knee resisted the uncomfortable angle. His grip tightened just enough to warn her he could break her if he wanted to. The stare he pinned her with hollowed her stomach, set her skin crawling with anguish.

  "Look," he said, voice low, his breath hot against her nose as he leaned in, laced with cigarettes, mint, and a musky wood scent that clung to her sinuses like rot disguised as something pleasant. "All you're making me want to do is bash your knee into your damn forehead." His grip twitched. "So, stop. If I get in trouble, you'll be sentenced in no time. Hear me?"

  Quin froze. The counter edge bit into her palm as she desperately held herself from the back of the toilet. She hated that she couldn't think of a single sentence; that her mind went blank under the weight of him, of how truthful he sounded. She looked anywhere but him, forcing a nod from her chin. "Good."

  His grip eased. His nails scraped lightly against her ankle as he lowered her leg back down, the casual brush of touch somehow worse than the force as her skin complained.

  "We'll come back to this when you're more willing to talk."

  He exhaled deeply as though bored, finishing the wrap on her knee. She kept his threat in her head to not lose herself. She couldn't afford her temper, not around him.

  "You need stitches. I know someone who can do it."

  "Why would I let a complete stranger with no degree touch me with needles?"

  "Assuming very little of a stranger, huh?" His smirk was brief, cutting. "You gonna go to the hospital?"

  Her silence betrayed her. "Well..."

  "You can trust him if not me. He's fixed me up a couple times before, see?"

  He tugged up his leather sleeve, revealing a raised mauve scar running jagged up his forearm.

  "What happened?" she asked before she could stop herself, drawn to the story behind the damaged skin.

  "Fell over a fence," he said flatly, offering no room for questions much to her dismay. "This'll help you get around easier. Won't stop the pain, though."

  He cleaned up the used supplies, tossing them into the trashcan beside her. She watched, her mind stuck on why he'd decide to do such a small grace.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "Why did you... You know?" she asked, tension still in her voice. "You could have let it rot. Could've killed me."

  "Because whoever has that money is who framed you for murder. Besides, it's not really my favorite pass time." Lyla wouldn't, would she? It wasn't how she remembered the stick figure had been like. Manipulative, sure. Murderous?

  "How is that possible?"

  "Jamie had it. It wound up in your hands when it was supposed to be back in mine."

  Her eyes widened. "Yours? Wait. Why should I believe you? She would've told me if she did something like that."

  His hand shot up, clamping her lips together mid-protest. She slapped at him, attempting to claw his grip away as he spoke. Eyes locked.

  "Because I saw her take it out of my fucking safe. God, you really don't know how to shut up and listen." Quin pulled her head back; her neck strained from keeping from flying back as he let go.

  Her mind sprinted while her chest heaved through the adrenaline. "She wouldn't—"

  "Steal?" His brow arched, lip curling. "You think just because she was your friend she wouldn't rob someone blind?" A dry chuckle left his lips, "God, you really are just some rich fuck's dumb mistake."

  The disgust in his tone was sharp enough to draw blood. He put his head in his hand, turning from her like she was something rancid.

  All Quin could hear was the insult. Like she didn't already know her father's money stained everything. But hearing it from a stranger, one invading her own home? What struck different was mistake. That one brought a new feeling as her face numbed; she didn't know whether she was about to throw up or break his nose.

  "She died for a reason," he said; offhand, like twisting a knife for fun.

  Her stomach roiled. The words were a hammer against her ribs, the same hollow, endless chorus she hated. Reasons. Always reasons. Always her fault somehow. What would he know, nothing more than me if he's wasting his time here.

  "Can you get out, please?" she managed, her brain screaming with insults she didn't dare unleash.

  "Huh?" Her teeth hurt from holding back. She still needed to know what he knew.

  "The hell you mean, huh? Just get out! Go tell my family I didn't like my outfit or something. I don't want you in my house anymore."

  Her eyes locked on his forehead instead of his gaze. It felt like facing her father—except this time, she wasn't lying.

  "What? No."

  She wanted to bash her head against the counter. It almost felt like relief, the way she had before, save for the nausea afterward.

  "You've been up here too long. Go make an excuse. Stall for me while I figure out how to hide this." She gestured at her wrapped knee.

  "Fine. But you're not ignoring this."

  She rolled her eyes, staring down at the wrap rather than the sharpness between his brows.

  "Whatever you say. Now get the fuck out."

  Her voice carried low, steady, while she kept her gaze glued to the floor. His muddy boots shifted toward the doorway, leaving dirt across her tiles. Her mom would scream when she saw it.

  "And next time you show up unannounced," she said, her voice rising as his back neared the door, "try to convince my mother you're not a beggar. She hates them. And if Jamie really did steal your fucking money," She glanced up, catching the glint in his eyes at her name. "Which I doubt was even yours, given your state, then you can theoretically afford new pants."

  She smirked, sharp, venomous as his eyes narrowed, glancing down briefly at his tattered clothes.

  "That, or I can buy you something that will actually look good on you."

  His gaze snapped back, darker now, locking with hers. The silence between them grew thick, charged. Her chest thudding so hard it hurt. Who knew playing his game would get lash back.

  Finally, he turned, his voice low, gravelly with disdain.

  "Okay, trust-fund baby."

  And he left her there, heart hammering, skin still crawling from the ghost of his touch.

  September 1966.

  "Ash, do you have the matches?" Rose asked, cigarette poised between her fingers, her chocolate-brown eyes flicking toward her twin.

  "Yeah," Quin answered before Ashlyn could, slipping between them with her book open. The creek bed was dry beneath her feet, crunching with each step. Ashlyn's tanned arm shot out suddenly, blocking her page. Quin lost her spot with an annoyed flick of her eyes, only to meet Ashlyn's grin as the matchbook loosely hung from her fingers.

  "Don't cover my work. If I fail this assignment, I'm stuck in Pre-AP again," she muttered, sharper than intended as she glanced behind them toward Jamie who had lagged behind, kicking the creek water absently.

  "Dell, let me do it," Rose pressed, smoke-soft voice stubborn. "Your dad won't know."

  "He would. Same way he found out about those essays you wrote for me," Quin shot back.

  "You didn't tell me—"

  "Duh." Quin angled the book back up, determined to stay focused. She wasn't risking another lecture about control and composure. "He doesn't know who did my assignments, just that it's not my writing. Besides, Michael tutors me." Better to drag herself through Michael's tutoring sessions with Jamie hovering close than give her father more reason to question her discipline.

  Ashlynn tilted her head, cigarette dangling loose from her lips, flicking her hand out toward her sister. "What about Lyla? She's smart. Spends her free period in the woods smoking, though."

  Jamie's voice cut through, pointed. "Yeah, when are you going to make up and kiss already?"

  Quin's head snapped toward her, heat rising to her face. Jamie always did this, tossed bait into the water while the twins circled, hungry for gossip. The girl still hadn't looked up, watching her feet as she avoided something from below.

  "When she stops stealing from me."

  Rose's match flared with the flick of her bejeweled wrist. "You shouldn't have shared with her. She doesn't even know about my stash. Fucking druggie."

  "Don't know how when you leave her klepto ass alone in your room." Ashlynn reached back across Quins book, snatching the matchbook from Rose's fingers.

  "I'm not saying she can't have any," Quin said, steady but tight. "She just needs to learn to pay."

  Ashlyn hummed out a chuckle like she'd heard a punchline. "She won't."

  "Yeah," Rose agreed, exhaling smoke. "She can be a bit of a leech."

  The smell crawled into Quin's sinuses, sour and sharp. Her patience snapped. She shut her book with a slap, the sound louder than she meant, irritation prickling her voice. "Just because she screws up doesn't mean you get to badmouth her."

  Jamie's voice landed heavy. "She took over fifty bucks' worth of blow you were going to sell."

  The twins froze, then lit up with intense curiosity.

  Ashlyn burst into laughter. "Wait, what? She ripped you off?! What happened? What'd you do?"

  Quin forced her shoulders square. Composure first. "I didn't do anything, it doesn't matter. I can sell more whenever I want. My father makes that in an hour; no one's noticing." She hated the buried feeling being brought back to her chest.

  Rose studied her, sharp and calculating. "Still. Letting someone steal from you? That's not like you."

  Ashlyn giggled, delighted. "Oh my god, Quin. You just let her walk off with it? If it were me, I'd take a bat to her. I'm surprised you didn't tell your dad."

  Quin's head snapped around. "Oh my god, Ashlyn. No."

  Ashlyn only laughed harder, while Rose's smile was faint, knowing. "She's right about one thing. You should've told your dad."

  Quin glared. "Yeah, brilliant plan. March in and admit I let some girl rip me off. Worse, for drugs. Do you know how fast he would go after the both of us?"

  Rose flicked ash into the dirt. "She couldn't have used it all yet. Take it back."

  "Or beat her with a bat," Ashlyn chirped again.

  Quin's patience thinned. "Jamie, make them stop."

  Jamie faltered, then shrugged. "Well, I mean—"

  Quin gaped. "What do you mean I mean? You're supposed to be on my side!"

  Jamie hesitated, chewing her lip as she kicked at the creek again. "She did steal your stuff. And... she's been passing notes around school."

  The twins turned in unison.

  Quin's stomach dropped. Her voice blended with the two on either side, "She has?"

  Jamie nodded, pulling a crumpled scrap from her pocket. "I saw her before school. Traded Joshua Greenie a Coke for it."

  Quin snatched the note before the twins could reach it. The words bled sharp across the page: Quin's free cock massage. One free blowie. The smaller, the better.

  Her chest hollowed.

  Ashlyn peaked over her shoulder before she lunged for it, cackling. "No way it says that—"

  Rose soon followed as she eyed the reading, her mouth twisting. "First she steals your shit, now this?" The blonde threw her arms up, skirt whipping in the damp wind. "You sure you don't want me to just beat her ass for you?"

  Quin's jaw locked. "No... I want to see what else she's planning." She turned to Jamie, the words pointed. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

  Jamie shrank under the weight of it, eyes wide and guilty. "I didn't know how. The note's awful, Quin. I didn't want to see your face when you read it."

  Quin stared at her best friend, the only person who never bluffed, the one who knew every ugly detail of her life. And there it was, truth written plain across Jamie's face. No malice, just the unadulterated anxiety she'd seen far and few times. So, this is why she was lagging behind. Her throat tightened, but she forced her voice steady. "Next time, don't protect me. I can take it."

  Jamie's expression softened, almost relieved.

  Quin let out a breath, clenching the note tighter in her fist. If Jamie was willing to show her the worst, then Quin had no excuse not to meet it head on.

  "Come on. The guys are waiting. T's probably already at the mall." She offered her hands, pulling each girl up the bank.

  "And if Lyla's there?" Rose asked.

  Quin's smile turned sharp. "She better hope she's not with the crap she's pulling."

  Jamie frowned. "She's overstepping, Quin. Bad."

  "Yeah, I know. This is good," Quin said simply. "I hope she does it again."

  The words felt heavy, but she let them stand. Her father's voice echoed in her head: No excuses. Get it right the first time and it won't happen again. She wasn't going to crumble again; not in front of Jamie, not in front of anyone.

  Ashlyn bounded ahead when they hit solid ground, hair bouncing, restless and eager as she practically raced herself toward Martin's house. Rose lingered close, smoke trailing behind. Quin followed last, clutching the crumpled note, its edges digging into her palm like a promise.

  Quin steadied herself in the mirror, drawing in a long, strained breath that lifted and tightened her chest. The dress still hid her bandaged knee, but the way the man had wrapped it made bending almost impossible. She should have been downstairs already; her mother and Nana would be expecting her at the table. Any later, and she'd earn questions she wasn't prepared to answer.

  But she couldn't tear her eyes from her reflection. She looked hollow. Like her body was moving through time while her mind dragged behind it, stuck somewhere else. Could she really be capable of murder? Quin tried a smile. Thin, brittle. It faltered before it reached her eyes. With a frustrated huff, she let her back fall against the edge of her bedframe before her feet finally pushed her toward the door.

  Her hand hovered over the knob, fingers flexing as though touching it would burn her. Just go. She grasped the cool metal and turned the handle as her eyes traced back toward the closed drawer of her vanity. There's too much going on, I can't.

  "Quin, the food is about to get cold!" her mother's voice carried up from below, sharper than usual.

  "I know," Quin muttered, barely enough sound to answer as she dragged her feet down the cold hallway.

  She descended the stairs, testing her knee with every step. That man is looking for the money, Jamie apparently stole it; don't know how much of that I believe. Lyla had the money, though, that part doesn't make sense. Why would she have the money? Her eyes looked to her feet as she eased her weight onto her foot, glancing up as her gaze landed on the dining room table. She had to stop herself from leaning her weight as she froze. He was still there. Sitting as though he belonged, angled close beside her grandmother. The sight stole the air from her lungs, and for one dizzy second she forgot all about the ache in her leg.

  The shift in him was obvious. No longer the sharp, unrelenting figure from before. He played polite now, pleasantly smiled, eyes lit in practiced ease. Her stomach twisted. Thought he wanted to come back to this later, not stick the fuck around.

  "Quindell, dear." Her mother's voice snapped her back. There was a tightness in it, a thin veneer of courtesy stretched over something brittle. "Close the gate for Dalton, would you? He was just about to leave."

  The name rang like a stone dropping into Quin's chest. Dalton. Now he wasn't just a shadow trailing her; he had a place, a shape, something her mother said out loud. She smiled back, sweet but stiff, nodding toward the door. "Of course. This way."

  Dalton's brow flicked with mild confusion at her light tone, but he rose anyway. Quin glanced at her grandmother, who tilted her head with a pitying sigh. "Oh, but we were having such a lovely chat. Well, Dalton, dear we'll surely be seeing you around I hope."

  He bent slightly, pressing a hand over hers, lips moving too low for Quin to catch. Her mother rolled her eyes from across the table, and the small act told Quin everything. Mama didn't want him here either.

  Dalton straightened, smiling as though nothing beneath the surface existed at all. "Thank you for welcoming me into your home," he said evenly, dipping his head toward her mother before finding Quin's eyes.

  That glint again. Sharp, knowing. Her jaw tightened, but she matched it, feigning brightness as she gestured to the door. "Of course. Right this way."

  The latch clicked behind them, and the air thinned.

  The polite curve of his shoulders sank into something more natural. A cigarette slipped between his lips, unlit, dangling as if it belonged there. From his pocket, something small shifted, a glimpse of white before he tucked it out of sight again. Sunlight burned against his hair, bringing out streaks of red across the dusty brown, his skin gleaming with heat.

  "I'll be getting you around eleven tonight," Dalton murmured, low, like a promise.

  Quin's throat tightened. "I have work in the morning." The protest came quick, instinctual.

  He scoffed, eyes cutting low into her with her words. "Do you think I care? Eleven. If you're not waiting by the gate," his hand shot outward, jabbing in its direction as they walked. "I'll come inside and drag you out myself."

  Her palms burned with sweat as she rubbed them together, gaze fixed on the gravel. The thought of him crossing that threshold, stepping into her room uninvited. Quin swallowed hard and only nodded. Testing him wasn't worth it.

  "Good," he said, smug satisfaction curling in his voice. "Finally listening."

  She unlatched the gate, pushing the weight of it open. His shadow closed in at her side, heat rolling from his body as his breath brushed the bare line of her neck. He leaned close, hand braced casually against the iron above her head, so near she felt the prickle of her skin recoil as she bit back a grimace.

  "You're telling me about this friend of yours tonight." His words hummed against the still air; the command wrapped in something suffocating. Quin's chest locked, her body shrinking back from his as she dared a glance upward. His eyes met hers, sharp with resentment, daring her to refuse.

  "Eleven." The word struck like an order barked in her ear.

  Her pulse snapped hot in her veins. "I fucking heard you the first time," she spat, voice small but cutting, shoving the gate against him with more force than she thought she had. The iron clanged shut, lock snapping into place between them.

  "Eleven. Or you'll be breaking into my house. Fine. Now get the fuck away from me."

  She turned hard, every muscle propelling her toward the front door, as if crossing that threshold again was the only barrier that could still protect her. Her knee spasmed with her quick pace, but she pushed until her fingers felt lukewarm metal.

  Tap. Tap.

  Quin paced tight circles, the knot in her knee tightening with every turn. She tried to breathe past it, but the pain just sharpened her thoughts: test him or don't. Stay put and let him come in, or go and face whatever this was. Her window rattled again, another pebble; but she kept moving, eyes fixed on the same strand of carpet like it might split and swallow her.

  Tap.

  Her fingers felt numb, loose. Her stomach pressed up like bile was deciding whether to climb.

  10:51 PM

  Clunk—clink, tap.

  "It's not even eleven," she muttered, yanking her small bag over her shoulder with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. "This is stupid, Quin. You should've stayed home. Fucking idiot."

  She slid the window up. He stood below with another rock pinched between his fingers, already cocked back wide. His face didn't read friendly; too still around the eyes, jaw set like he had a countdown running in his head.

  "You can't give me seven more minutes?" she hissed, hauling the bag to the sill.

  "Nope. Can't waste a second."

  "Catch," she said, and dropped it.

  The strap slapped his neck with a satisfying sound. "Hey!"

  "Can't waste a second, right?" A grin tugged at her mouth, quick and mean, and was gone as soon as she swung a leg out. Her knee screamed when it bent to the lattice. The wood bit her palms, the world tilting hard. She slipped a rung and her vision flashed white.

  A hand clamped her calf, hot through the wrap and steadied her before she pitched backward. The brush of his jacket against her shin, the heat of his wrist at her ankle; her body jolted like it had touched a live wire. She wrenched free on instinct.

  "Get your crusty hands off me."

  His hand disappeared. "Then watch your foot," he retorted, stepping back but close enough that she could feel him there. "You fall from here; I'm not scraping you off the bricks."

  "Great pep talk." She sucked air, found the rhythm, and crabbed the last rungs down. The grass met her soles and her leg almost folded again with another blinding lick of pain before it receded to a hot throb. She swiped at his hand as he kept her level.

  "I'm fine," she breathed, not looking at him.

  "Prove it." He nodded toward the lot. "Move."

  She did, limping stubbornly with grumbled words; and when the numb pins turned back into pain, she put her hand on the top of his shoulder without thinking. Warmth bled through the leather; his breath ghosted her temple when he angled closer to take more of her weight, the faint mix of smoke and dry wood catching in her nose. Every hair on her arms pulled away from her skin. She adjusted her grip so she didn't touch his throat.

  "You're leaning wrong," he said. "You're choking me."

  "No, stop—" she muttered, then he shifted under her arm, a quick lift that set her elbow higher on his shoulder without pulling her in. "You're bad at this."

  "I really am trying my best," she deadpanned. It earned nothing from him but the smallest exhale. "You're the one dragging me out."

  They slipped through the gate and cut the empty lot next door, weeds slapping their shins. The grass still showed the bald patches where she and Jamie had worn paths. Circles pressed into dirt, a square where a blanket used to live, a place that still felt like theirs even in the dark. Quin slowed without meaning to.

  "Have you lost someone before?" she asked, the words out before she could cage them. She wanted to bash her head into a wall.

  "Yeah." Her brows furrowed deep with his response.

  "So you know what it's like."

  "I don't." Well, fuck you then.

  She swallowed whatever answer wanted to follow and stared straight ahead, weight lightening off his shoulder as they reached the road.

  At the curb, he reached into his jacket and stuck a key into a dark car. He opened the passenger door and tipped his chin. "Hop in, princess."

  She glared as she limped the last steps and slid onto cool leather. "Such a prick for such a nice car."

  "Thanks," he said, shutting her in. She watched as he rounded the front, slipping into the driver's seat. "It's not mine."

  Her head turned. "Whose is it?"

  The engine turned over. Headlights washed the street. He didn't answer.

  "Lost your tongue?"

  "Do you know how to stop talking?" His voice cracked, too loud in the small space. "It's conversation after conversation with you, my god."

  Her shoulders tucked in. "Jeez I was just asking."

  He scoffed.

  "Stare at the road or something."

  Smoke curled and faded in the radio's glow; he lit one, then another, each quiet click and drag carving the silence. The radio came on low; an old harmony she knew by heart. Then another, the kind of songs that make time stretch and fold. She hummed under her breath and watched the dark peel back from the hood.

  When the pavement turned to gravel, each bump sent pins up her calf. By the third heavy bump she spoke. "How much further?"

  No response.

  "Hey, chain smoker, how much further? This road hurts."

  He flicked ash. "We're here. Driveway's just long."

  She watched the smoke unfurl near his cheek and tried to track it instead of the pain. The fields opened into shadows, fence posts, a sudden shape that resolved into a house. All and quiet and wrong in the dark with windows like held breath.

  "Is this a farm or something?" she asked.

  "A small one."

  "Does it smell like one?"

  He cut her a look as his nose crinkled. "What are you, twelve?"

  She shrugged, eyes on the house. She couldn't see much, two windows had light on the first floor, both from what she assumed was the same room. "Whose place is this? It's big."

  He let the tires crawl, flicking his cigarette butt out the window as he rolled it up. He wasn't even looking at her, his eyes glued to the house as he spoke. "You bit him."

  "Huh?"