“He does.” Jack rubs a hand over his face. “Which is why he called your other cousin.”
There it is.
My stomach knots. “He told me he was doing that.”
“In the interest of keeping you breathing, I’m not opposed to extra eyes. Or extra guns.”
“‘Extra guns’ is a polite way of saying babysitter.”
He meets my gaze squarely. “You need a babysitter.”
I slam my coffee down, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “You were here last night. I locked my doors. I got away from the window. I called you. I didn’t invite him in to make s’mores and trade origin stories.”
“I know.” His tone is calm. Infuriatingly calm. “You did everything right. The problem is, he still found you.”
That little truth lands like a stone in my gut.
“I won’t be alone,” I say. “You’re here. The deputies. Brodie. Cotton. Shy. I’m not some isolated woman on the edge of town. Henry picked the wrong girl this time.”
“He picked the same girl,” Jack says quietly. “That’s what worries me.”
Silence stretches between us. Outside, a truck rumbles past, tires crunching over the frosty street.
“Who is he sending?” I ask finally. “Kael. Who’s my new designated sitter?”
Jack looks past me, through the little gap in my curtains. His gaze snags on something outside and his shoulders shift.
“You know him,” he says. “He came in and helped when Shiloh went missing.”
My pulse stutters. “Atlas?”
He shakes his head.
“Brodie, then?” I demand. “Because Brodie can’t sit on me; he needs to stay with Cotton—”
“Not Brodie,” he cuts in. “Bran Kelly.”
The name hits like a physical thing.
Bran. Great.
Images flash uninvited behind my eyes: a big, silent man in a dark coat standing in Brodie’s living room, taking up more space than physics should allow. Thick shoulders, scarred knuckles, eyes that saw too much and said too little. The way he moved—controlled, precise, dangerous.
“Oh, hell no,” I say.
Jack’s brows climb. “What?”
“I am not letting Kael’s favorite blunt instrument camp out in my apartment,” I say. “I’d rather take my chances with the serial killer.”
“Don’t say shit like that,” Jack snaps, more heat in his voice than he’s shown all morning. “You don’t mean it.”
I do and I don’t. The part of me that hates being watched means it.
“He’s…huge,” I say weakly. “And grumpy. And he looks at people like he’s calculating how many different ways he could break them before breakfast.”
“Good.” Jack crosses his arms. “Maybe Henry Thurston will see him and decide you’re not worth the trouble.”
“It’s very sweet that you think that’s how this works,” I mutter.
