Still.
I tilt my head, considering, as I pace back toward the sofa. It’s not entirely accurate to say “nothing good” came out of this.
Miguel is dead. Cotton is scared. Henry is out there.
But I got Bran.
That counts for something I don’t have a word for yet.
I don’t know exactly what this is between us, but I like it. I like the way he saysTallulahin that deep rumble, like it’s something worth saying. I like that he looks at me like I’m more than a brain attached to a keyboard.
What Idon’tlike is being in the mountains with no real connection, no full rig, no—
My rambling train of thought derails when my gaze snags on a bag by the door.
That looks suspiciously like my laptop bag.
I cross the room in three quick strides, heart kicking up, and unzip it.
A ridiculous little squeal escapes me when I see the familiar black rectangle inside. I yank my laptop out like it’s Christmas morning.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Hello, beloved.”
I have no idea when it arrived, and I don’t really care. What Idocare about is why Bran didn’t tell me I had it. I could’ve been on it all day.
Which, now that I think about it, is probably exactly why he didn’t say anything.
“Neanderthal,” I mutter, dropping onto the sofa and flipping it open.
The screen wakes; the date down in the corner catches my eye. November 28.
Thanksgiving Day.
I freeze, fingers hovering over the trackpad.
I’d completely lost track of time. The last week has been this blur of sirens and blood and Bran and fear. Seeing the date is like someone yanking a curtain back.
It was only last Thursday that we’d just had Friendsgiving at Cotton’s…just a week ago. All of us crowded around her long table, Sammy complaining that we’d never have enough mashed potatoes, Brodie stealing bacon off the green beans, Shy and Gunner bickering over who cheated at cards, Jack pretending he wasn’t enjoying himself half as much as he actually was.
Has it really only been a week since then?
Since laughter and pie and Henry Thurston still being mostly a file and a ghost, instead of a man at my window?
It feels like so much longer.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Work mode. Do something.”
My fingers fly across the keyboard as I scan for available networks. There’s a locked one from the rental company andanother nearby. It takes me about thirty seconds to slide past their password protection and piggyback onto their signal.
“Hello, free Wi-Fi. I will not abuse you. Probably.”
Lucy Falls news sites. Social feeds. Local forums. Cop blogs masquerading as true-crime threads. I start opening tabs on autopilot, part of me already assembling timelines, looking for mentions of Miguel, of Cotton’s farm, of Henry.
“Why am I a Neanderthal?”
Bran’s voice right beside my ear makes me jerk so hard my laptop wobbles.
“Jesus,” I yelp, clutching it to my chest. “Wear a bell.”
