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Jordan and I jogged through the park until we were both too worn out to stagger another step. I could barely stand, but the freedom of running left me feeling recharged and determined to face the day.
I stared up at the winter trees and panted, trying to catch my breath. Jordan dropped back against a tree and tugged at the collar of his sweatshirt, letting the cold winter air breathe over his sweaty skin.
When I looked over at him, he grinned, all charming dimples. “You realize we have to jog back now.”
“It’s only three miles.”
His blond eyebrows drew together. “Only? We already jogged nine. Do you have an off switch?”
I smirked at him. “Wimping out?”
A sparkle of challenge in his eyes preceded his declaration, “If you get too tired on the way back, I’ll gladly give you a piggyback ride to the car.”
“Ha, I just plan on leaving you behind if you get too tired.”
“Well, I didn’t expect you to carry me, but you could at least throw me a bone and pretend to pass out on the path next to me.”
I smiled and shook my head as I started the long trek back to the car at a leisurely walk. Jordan fell in step beside me but afforded me the space I needed.
“You’re faster than Sam,” I said.
“A fact I fully intend to rub in his face.”
He was faster than me too, but I wasn’t admitting that out loud. “Do you jog a lot at home? In Kansas, I mean.”
“Every morning. I try to encourage my deputies to exercise regularly too. Being fit is important in law enforcement. Nobody feels very confident in a cop who looks like he just ate his way through Dunkin’ Donuts.”
I laughed. “Probably doesn’t help that Oma is always baking you guys cookies.”
Oma was his grandmother, and she was a baking addict. She baked cookies the size of softballs, and they were mouthwatering.
Jordan shook his head. “She won’t be happy until we’re all too fat to climb over a fence. I have to jog for an hour and kickbox for forty-five minutes every day around Christmas.”
Christmas . . .
I remembered Christmas in Kansas. Immediately after opening gifts with our own families, Jordan and I would meet in the woods to exchange the gifts we had gotten each other.
And then we would go through our stockings, trading and sharing treats. Gin would come bouncing out in one of her new princess dresses thirty minutes later, sticky-faced from candy canes and mint chocolates.
The memory brought a smile to my lips.
A gust of cold air turned my sweat chilly, and I shivered. I didn’t do well with the cold, and if we didn’t pick up the pace, I was going to freeze.
“Did you catch your breath yet?” I asked with a glance his way.
He gave me a wry smile. “I’ve been waiting on you.”
Liar.
We broke into a slow jog for the return trip. I could push myself harder, but surprisingly, I was enjoying the companionship during my run, and I wasn’t ready to return to the car.
A half hour of blessedly lighthearted conversation passed between us before we reached the edge of the park.
“We should make this a daily ritual,” Jordan suggested breathlessly. “Though I don’t think I’m up for twelve miles every day.”
“I thought you were fit,” I teased.
Jordan laughed. “I am, but I’m built for speed, not endurance.”
I slid onto the hood of his car to rest, something Marx would never let me do. He would freak out if I left shoe prints on the hood of his car. “Well, we can’t run every day anyway, because you have to go home soon.”
Jordan had only gone home once since my birthday, and I knew he had a job and a family. He was the sheriff of Stony Brooke. I didn’t imagine that was a job he could do over the phone.
He unlocked the car and grabbed the bottle of water off the dashboard. He broke the seal and tossed it to me. “I had planned to go back next week, but . . .”
I caught the bottle, dropped it, and snatched it before it could roll off the hood. I heard Jordan’s snort of amusement at my perpetual case of the butterfingers.
“But what? Don’t you wanna go home?”
His expression clouded over, much like it had this morning after he spoke with Marx in the kitchen, and I knew what was troubling him.
“Don’t stay because you’re worried about me. I can take care of myself.” I made a conscious effort not to be offended by the doubt that flashed through his eyes. “Okay, so I’m a little . . . slow in self-defense class.”
He set his own water bottle on top of the car and gripped the edge of the roof as he leveled a concerned look at me. “You get hurt a lot, Holly.”
“I’m not the one who got stabbed,” I reminded him.
He had tracked Marx and me back to my childhood home this past autumn, where Edward was holding us captive, and he was stabbed during his attempt to rescue us.
“Yes, I got stabbed.”
“And thrown around like a rag doll,” I added, just to be sure we were keeping an accurate account.
He rolled his eyes. “Yes, but in my defense, that guy was clearly on steroids in the womb. And my point is, in the space of two months, you were attacked in the park, drugged, assaulted, abducted, and . . .”
Nearly sliced to ribbons by a serial killer.
I pressed a hand to my stomach as I remembered the knife slicing into me. The scars were a haunting reminder.
I cleared the uncomfortable emotions from my throat. “For the record, I didn’t get hurt in the park.” By the grace of God. “And the rest of that was one insane individual, so . . . that’s . . . a really flawed argument.”
“You’re a trouble magnet.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, rubbing the bottle between my palms. “You should probably run away while you still can.”
His lips thinned in a smile. “I’m not running away. Now that I found you, you’re stuck with me. But my point is, I was hesitant to leave before Marx told me about Collin. Now, I—”
“Jordan you have a family and a job. Your parents and your town need you.” It had been my town too, once upon a time, but I would never be able to live there again, not after everything that had happened. “I won’t be the reason you lose your job or fall away from your family. I don’t want that.”
“If I leave you here with that . . .”—he curled his fingers into fists and blew out a breath—“that man, I’m not gonna be able to do anything but worry about you every day.”
“Would you be less worried if I was a guy? I’m pretty sure I could pull off baggy jeans and a crooked baseball cap.”
He didn’t seem to appreciate my attempt at levity, because his troubled expression didn’t change.
“I would still worry if you were a guy. Just . . . differently.”
“Well, just don’t think about it,” I suggested, dropping my gaze to my worn sneakers. “That’s what I try to do.”
He hung his head and let out a breath laden with too many raw emotions. Maybe that had been the wrong thing to say.
Tension played across his broad shoulders and down his arms, and I knew he was wrestling with anger.
At least he doesn’t have a table to throw.
It seemed strange that the boy I remembered—the one who hid behind me from snakes and spiders, knees practically knocking together—had grown into this strong man with a desire to protect.
It was also strange that he had followed in his father’s footsteps. He had dreamed of being anything but a cop, but here he was, a sheriff. I wondered if the death of my family had changed that.
It had changed my dreams too. My dreams of helping animals like my mom did had given way to dreams of finding a forever home, and then to simply finding a place where I didn’t have to be afraid anymore.
I wondered what Jordan would’ve done with his life if he hadn’t spent it trying to solve the murder of my family. I bet he would’ve become a football player. The one that runs really fast with the ball.
I bounced my toes on the hood as the cold wind cut straight through my clothing and took my body heat with it. I hated winter almost as much as I hated autumn. I was ready for February to end.
Jordan finally pushed his body up straight and said, “What do you say we get you cozied up to a heater before you turn into an icy hood ornament?” His calm tone belied the raw emotions in his eyes.
“Heat,” I said passionately.
“Just so happens my car has a heater. And heated seats. And I might be willing to share.”
“Oh?” I asked, sliding off the hood of the car. “You would do that?”
“Only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself. I have boundaries, you know,” he said, completely deadpan, and I laughed.
He walked around the car to open the passenger door, then closed it after I settled into the seat.
He slid behind the wheel. “So where to?” When I shrugged, he glanced at his watch. “We should probably swing by your apartment to get your things.”
The breakfast discussion this morning had revolved around how best to keep me safe with Collin in the area. Marx had suggested I continue to stay with him until they figure out how to deal with the situation, but I had only packed a few changes of clothes.
He had also suggested that I avoid being alone, which meant someone with a gun would accompany me everywhere.
“Right,” I sighed, slumping lower in my seat. As we pulled out of the parking space and headed in the direction of my apartment, I tried not to dwell on the fact that Collin might still be there.
When we pulled into a vacant space against the curb, Jordan climbed out first. He rested one hand on his gun and looked around, his demeanor suddenly sharp and watchful.
Nerves fluttered in the pit of my stomach as I looked at my apartment. Yesterday morning it would’ve been a welcome sight, but all I could think about this morning was Collin leaning against the front door: the taunting curl of his lips, the chilling sound of his voice, the way he looked at me, even from a distance.
I was so afraid he would step out from behind the building.
Don’t be such a chicken.
I straightened my spine and shrugged off as much fear as I could before starting up the sidewalk. Jordan hovered nearby as I fished the keys from my bag. My fingers shook so badly that it took me four tries to unlock the door.
I breathed a sigh of relief when the last dead bolt clicked open. I pushed open the door, and my fat cat, Jordan—whom I had subconsciously named after my childhood best friend—chortled and flopped on the floor at my feet like a dead opossum. I hefted him up with a grunt and cradled him in one arm. “Hi, Tubby.”
Jordan stepped inside but remained by the open door. My apartment was small, and I suspected he was trying not to crowd me. If he stayed on the four-foot perimeter, we couldn’t actually be in the same room.
It was a one-room apartment—two, if you considered the tiny bathroom a room—and the end of my couch was about two feet from the end of my bed. My bed rested in an alcove that was cordoned off by heavy purple drapes, giving the illusion of a bedroom.
“What all do you need to grab?” Jordan asked.
“Cat food,” I said, dragging the small bag out from under the sink. “Litter.” I tugged that out next. “And a few more pairs of clothes.”
My apartment felt cold despite the electric heat, and it was only when I brushed aside the purple drapes that the full icy draft washed over me.
My cat tumbled out of my arms onto the mattress as I stared at the windows by the bed. They weren’t broken and rimmed with jagged pieces of glass; the panes of glass were just . . . gone.
I crossed to the windows and peered out into the frozen flower bed. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find, but there was no one standing there, and no evidence that anyone had stood there recently.
My mind went strangely blank, and for a moment, I couldn’t think. But then the truth crept slowly over me, and my lungs constricted.
Collin had been inside my home.
Who else would bother breaking into an apartment, my apartment, that clearly had nothing worth stealing? I stepped back, bumping into the side of my bed.
What did he do? He did something.
Collin would’ve left me a little reminder of our history just to taunt me. I looked around my apartment, and then I noticed what I had missed when I opened the drapes and saw the windows. The rod above my bed, where my clothes normally hung, was empty.
My eyes fell to the small wooden box resting on my cardboard nightstand. I stretched out a shaking hand to lift the lid, praying that everything would be as I left it.
Seeing the bottom of the empty box was like a blow to the stomach, and it knocked the wind out of me. I pressed back against the wall and hugged myself as I fought the rising panic.
Collin enjoyed playing pranks on people, especially me. He had done it frequently when I lived with his family: hiding my clothes and towels while I was showering, stealing my undergarments, putting tacks or bugs under my blankets or in my shoes.
I forced myself to swallow the bile that crept across the back of my tongue as I remembered what happened the last time he took all my clothes, and slapped the lid of the box shut. I couldn’t stand staring at its emptiness.
“Let’s go,” I said, snagging my cat and backing into the center of the apartment.
Jordan looked me over in confusion. “You didn’t pack anything. What about changes of clothes?”
I shook my head. “I just wanna go.”
His brows drew together. “You look pale. I mean, more so than usual. And you’re trembling.” He stepped away from the door and crossed the apartment to stand beside me.
The instant his gaze landed on the windows—which had been just beyond his sight from his position by the door—his hand fell back to rest on his gun, and he moved cautiously around the bed to investigate.
There was a note of tension in his voice as he stared through the farthest window frame. “I’m guessing Collin came back after I left this morning.” He scanned the floor. “What happened to the glass?”
I looked at the floor. I had been too preoccupied with the empty window frames to realize that no glass had crunched beneath my feet. It was as if someone had shattered the windows, slipped inside, and then cleaned up after themselves.
Collin had taken the glass for a reason, and I was pretty sure I would find out why in a very unpleasant way.
“Who knows. Can we go now?” I asked.
“Holly, someone broke into your apartment. Probably Collin. We can’t just leave.”
“Yes, we can.”
“We need to report it.”
“No, we don’t.”
His gaze dropped to my feet. I hadn’t noticed I was bouncing my right foot in an anxious rhythm until he brought it to my attention. I forced myself to stand still.
“What did he take besides the glass?” he asked. “Anything?”
My eyes skimmed the bare curtain rod and then drifted unwittingly to the wooden box. His gaze followed mine, and he opened the lid to peer inside. He paused for a moment and then reached into the box.
To my surprise, he pulled out a folded slip of paper I hadn’t even noticed. He opened it carefully, touching only the corners, and frowned.
He looked at me as he repeated the message on the paper, his tone puzzled: “How does it feel?”
I tried to choke off the whimper of fear that crawled up my throat. Terrifying. It felt terrifying.
“How does what feel? What is this supposed to mean?” he asked. Marx must not have shared that awful detail with him when he summarized my history. “What was in the box?”
I dropped my gaze to the floor and hugged my cat tighter for comfort. Knowing Collin had slipped in and taken my jeans and sweaters was unnerving enough, but the fact that he’d taken my personal things made me feel humiliated and vulnerable.
“Holly, what did he take?”
“My clothes.” I forced my eyes to his. “All of them.”
It took him a moment to understand what I meant, and then I saw a glint of anger in his eyes. “Okay. I’m gonna call this in. Try not to touch anything.” He replaced the note in the box and walked back toward the front door to place the call.
I sank down on my couch. My cat plopped and sprawled onto the cushions, and I curled in on myself, dropping my face into my knees.
Just breathe.
I tried to convince myself it wasn’t worth getting upset over, that they were just pieces of clothing I could replace. But I couldn’t shake the sick feeling in my stomach.
Deep breath. One, two, three, four. And exhale.
Jordan ended his call a few minutes later, and I heard his shoes scuffing the cement as he crossed the room to stand in front of me. “You okay?”
“Fine,” I muttered into my knees.
“I know you wanna leave, but the police are on the way, along with CSU, so we need to hang out for a bit.”
I lifted my head. “Please don’t tell Marx. He’ll—”
“Worry? He has a right to worry. Collin broke into your apartment and took your clothes. I’m worried.” He tapped his phone against his palm as he watched me with a small, tense line between his eyebrows. “Has he ever done anything like this before?”
I fidgeted uncomfortably, not wanting to share those stories. “He’s never really been good at respecting a girl’s boundaries.”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard,” he said, his words low and clipped with anger. He pulled out one of the folding metal chairs from my kitchen table and sat down to face me. “Marx said your placement with the Wells family lasted eleven months.”
I nodded.
He seemed to struggle with something before finally asking, “Why didn’t you run away? Why didn’t you ask for help?”
I leveled a smoldering glare at him. “You think I didn’t?”
His shoulders tensed. “I only know what Marx shared with me.”
I sighed and slumped down on the couch, hiding behind my knees. I didn’t want to talk about this.
“What happened?” he asked.
I picked at the lint on my running pants as I tried to work up the nerve to answer. “You know those stories you hear about women being held captive for days, months, sometimes years in some madman’s basement?”
“Yeah.”
“I spent eleven months of my life like that. Except my prison walls were constructed by threats and fear.”
Sometimes my prison was more physical than that, like a box, but those moments were temporary.
“I was the oldest foster child the Wells family had ever taken in, but there were three younger kids.” Their tiny faces materialized in my mind. Sweet, innocent babies. “Nathaniel, Nat, was the youngest. He had just turned six, and he hovered around me like a little butterfly. Michael—he was the little artist, and Cassie was only a few weeks older than Nat, and she was . . . so shy but sweet.”
“You loved them,” Jordan said, as if he had heard something in my voice I wasn’t even aware I had shared.
I had held them when they cried, tucked them in at night, and I had loved them when everyone else in their lives had abandoned them.
“I did,” I admitted. But I hadn’t been able to protect them. “It didn’t take Collin long to figure that out. I wasn’t as easy to control as they were. I resisted and fought him at every opportunity.”
“So he used them against you.”
I nodded. “You asked me why I didn’t run away. I did once. I don’t think Collin’s parents even noticed I was gone—they were too wrapped up in themselves—but Collin reported me missing.”
My ever-dutiful foster brother.
The thought was laughable, but the memories weighed too heavily on me for laughter.
“The police picked me up. I tried to convince the officer not to take me back. I told him what was happening in that house, but he didn’t believe me. I didn’t have any proof.”
Collin had been so careful when he hurt us, especially the younger kids. He rarely left marks, and if he did, he fabricated a story about an accident just in case anyone asked.
Jordan hesitated for a moment before asking, “What about a hospital? I mean, they could’ve done an exam if—”
“I didn’t wanna be touched.”
He let out a slow, tense breath and stood from his chair. He mounted his hands on his hips and tapped his fingers against his belt. “What happened when the officer didn’t believe you? He took you back?”
“He told me that, as a foster child, I should be thankful a family was willing to open their home to me, that I had a safe place to sleep at night.” If only he had known the irony of that statement. “And then he escorted me right back to the front door.”
Jordan leaned on the back of my kitchen chair, gripping it tightly. “What happened then?”
“Collin . . . he made me . . . watch while he punished the other kids for my escape attempt.” Unexpected tears slipped down my cheeks, and I brushed them away. “I didn’t try to run away again after that.”
“His parents? They didn’t listen? They didn’t care?”
The small laugh that bubbled out of me was tinged with bitterness. “Their perfect son would never do such a thing.”
“What about your caseworker? You had a caseworker, right?”
“I had a weekly phone call with her, sometimes visits. I tried to tell her over the phone what was happening, but Collin took the phone from me and hung it up. And then he . . .” I tightened my arms around my stomach and tried not to shiver at the memory. “He broke one of Nat’s fingers in front of me. He told me if I ever tried to tell what was happening, he would break one of their bones for every word I spoke. And then he made me call her back and tell her everything was fine.”
Jordan’s hands tightened on the chair, and the flimsy metal groaned. “So you didn’t tell her he was hurting you.”
I stared at my knees. “I didn’t tell anyone after that. I never even spoke his name aloud.” It had almost become an irrational fear—like chanting “Bloody Mary” three times in front of a mirror—that speaking Collin’s name would somehow make the monster appear.
I caught a flash of movement through the open door, and fear had me reaching for the box cutter I’d hidden between the cushions of the couch. I popped out the blade.
Jordan lifted an eyebrow at the sharp tool poised in my hand.
“What?” I snapped defensively.
After Collin’s disconcerting phone call on my birthday, I had stashed potential weapons all over. I had no intention of being helpless if he broke into my apartment to hurt me again.
“Remind me to get you a pocketknife for Christmas,” Jordan said. He strode to the door and peered out. “It’s just the police.”
I relaxed a fraction and retracted the blade before setting the box cutter down on the cushion next to me.
A uniformed officer and a member of the Crime Scene Unit descended the steps onto my patio. “Thanks for coming, guys.” Jordan invited them in with a wave of his hand.
They photographed my apartment and collected any slivers of glass they could find along with my wooden box to process them for trace evidence. They bagged the note Collin had left, but I knew they wouldn’t find his fingerprints on it.
I stared intently at my knees as Jordan gave a statement to the officer. I refused to speak to him on the matter. Twenty minutes later, my apartment was cleared and the officers left with little to show for their efforts.
We swung by Jace’s apartment to drop off my cat, and she agreed to watch my “tiny whale,” as she called him, under the condition that I attended her next sled hockey game so I could watch her “wipe the floor with Warren.”
She even told me I could bring along “the sheriff,” who was standing right next to me and apparently, as far as she was concerned, had no name. She appreciated that he had saved my life in Kansas, but I wondered if a tiny part of her worried that he might replace her as my best friend.
I begrudgingly agreed to her terms and dropped my plump cat into her apartment before we left. He took off across her dining room, making enough noise for an entire stampede.
We pulled into a vacant spot in front of Marx’s apartment fifteen minutes later. A tense silence hung in the car, and irritation prickled beneath my skin when Jordan glanced at me for what felt like the tenth time.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned I don’t like to be watched,” I reminded him.
“I’m just making sure you’re okay. I thought you might be upset.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
I cast a heated glare his way as I flung off the seat belt and opened the car door. “Don’t tell me how I’m feeling.”
He let out a heavy breath and pressed his forehead to the steering wheel. I slammed the car door and started toward the building.
The apartment door wasn’t locked when I reached the second floor, either because Marx forgot, which was unlikely, or because he was expecting me back soon. I knocked, then opened the door and popped my head inside.
“Hello?” I called out.
“You don’t have to knock, Holly.” Marx’s voice carried down the hall into the living room.
Jordan, who had taken the steps two at a time to catch up with me, followed me inside and closed the door behind him.
The television was tuned to a news station, and my attention was drawn to the portrait in the top right corner of the screen. Even months later, his face still chilled me.
“Investigators are still trying to link the string of deaths across the country to suspected serial killer Edward Moss Billings,” a female reporter explained. “The FBI refuses to comment on the progress of this investigation, and the local detective responsible for uncovering the series of connected deaths remains behind the scenes. The young woman who was abducted by Edward Billings just this November still remains unnamed, but sources say she may be . . .”
The screen suddenly winked out, and I turned to see Marx standing in the kitchen with the remote.
“I’m surprised you don’t have reporters crawling up the side of your building for a comment,” I said.
“They’ll figure out my name eventually.” He set the remote on the counter. “My concern is them figurin’ out your name.”
I didn’t even want to think about that. I nodded toward the screwdriver in his hand. “What did you break?”
“I didn’t break anythin’. I just finished puttin’ a lock on the bathroom door.”
I walked to the bathroom door to inspect his handiwork. He had changed the entire door handle, and it now had a secure dead bolt on the inside.
I felt the pressure of tears in my throat. I would never have asked him to do this, but I knew why he had; he wanted me to feel safe when I showered here. The tears made their way to my eyes, and I tried to blink them back. What was wrong with me today?
Marx frowned. “Sweetheart, it’s just a lock.” He cast Jordan a questioning look.
“Collin paid her apartment a visit before we got there.”
Marx’s face hardened, and he set his tools on the counter. “We’ll talk in the livin’ room. Holly, there’s somethin’ in your room for you.”
Wondering what he could have left in the spare bedroom, I went to check. I cracked open the door and gasped. “Riley!”
The German shepherd lay on a massive dog pillow with a bandage around his middle. His tail thumped the floor excitedly, and he lifted his head.
“Hi,” I said to him, sinking to my knees beside him. His tongue lolled out, and he moved his head into my lap so I could rub behind his ears. “How’s my little hero?”
I hugged his head, needing the comfort, and he didn’t seem to mind. I heard Jordan shout good-bye to me a moment before Marx appeared in the bedroom doorway.
“I picked him up this mornin’,” he said. “I’m tryin’ to track down his owner, but in the meantime, I thought the two of you could keep each other company.”
“I like that idea.” I rubbed Riley’s neck and planted a kiss on the top of his fuzzy head. I wanted to squeeze him with love, but he had a lot of healing to do before I could squeeze him. “Do we know how he got shot?”
Marx crouched down beside me and patted Riley’s back. “Probably tryin’ to protect somebody.”
I hoped he had at least succeeded. I kissed him again. “You’re such a good dog.”
“Maybe he’ll help you to feel a little safer.” The glimmer of worry in his eyes told me Jordan had shared more than the details of the break-in. He had probably relayed the information I shared with him about my foster home. “We’ll go to the store and get you some new clothes tomorrow.”
I pursed my lips and nodded.
“Thank you. For this. For everything,” I said. “I can, um, pay you for his vet bills and for the lock on the bathroom door.”
I rummaged through my bag for money and pulled out a few crumpled twenties. It wasn’t enough, but it was a start. I held them out to him.
He gave me a look. “It’s cute that you think I’m gonna take that.”
“Please.”
“I don’t want your money. Even if it wasn’t in a state of complete anarchy.”
I sighed and dropped the handful of bills to my lap. I tried to smooth them out over my knee, but the wrinkles were permanent.
I didn’t understand Marx. He was the only person I knew who seemed to do things without expecting something in return. Everyone wanted something, even if it wasn’t owed to them.
Even Jace had demanded something in return for watching my cat, and she was my friend.
Deciding the money was a lost, crinkled cause, I crammed it back into the side pocket of my bag and folded my arms. “If you won’t let me pay you, then . . . I’ll clean.”
“Yourself? Because I know you’re not suggestin’ my apartment’s dirty.”
My mouth opened, and I floundered for a response. “Um . . . no?”
He lifted an eyebrow.
I tried to scrounge up a less offensive alternative. “What about cooking? I could make you dinner so you have something to eat when you get off work after a long day. Or maybe breakfast so—”
“Holly,” he said on a soft sigh. “I realize that you’re used to people wantin’ somethin’ from you, but I don’t want anythin’ from you.”
My shoulders slumped in confusion. “But I have to pay you back somehow.”
“No, you don’t. You stayin’ here isn’t some grave inconvenience. I don’t need you to cook me food or clean my house, and I certainly don’t need your money. You’re my guest.”
“But I—”
“Quit arguin’ with me.”
I snapped my mouth shut, at a loss for words.
“And try to get some rest,” he suggested. He gave Riley’s head one last parting pat before standing and moving to the door.
“But we’re not done talking about the money thing.”
“Yes, we are.” He pulled the door shut on any argument I might have offered.
I lay down on the floor next to Riley and propped my head up on an arm. A yawn snuck up on me as I ran my fingers lazily through his fur. It was barely evening, but I had been awake since a little after three in the morning, and I was exhausted. I hugged Riley’s neck gently and fell asleep on the floor next to my protective companion.