BRAN
Kael’sfaceisagrainy square on Cotton’s laptop, the secure call window open on the den coffee table between my knees.
“Tell me you’re exaggerating,” he says.
“I’m not,” I answer.
He swears in Irish, then in English for emphasis. “So—serial killer at her window, serial killer in her inbox, you in Gallagher’shouse, and Tallulah thinking this is all a fun little logic puzzle. That about right?”
“Close enough.”
He leans back in his chair, fingers steepled, eyes narrowed. Behind him: bookshelves, heavy curtains, the corner of a framed photograph I don’t let myself focus on. Kael’s version of home. Mine’s a duffel bag.
“How bad is she?” he asks.
My brain supplies images in response to the question. Tallulah with her hand flat on the table, fighting not to shake. Her eyes wide with vulnerability and fear as her fingers hovered over the laptop.
But then, better ones. Easier ones. Laughing with Saoirse while the kid puts glitter stickers on her laptop. In the kitchen, stuffing her face with a cookie that looked suspiciously like a dick and giggling over it.
“Depends on the five-minute interval you catch her in,” I say. “She’s scared, but she’s not trying to pretend she’s not. She’s still functional. Still sharp. Hasn’t tried to sneak out ‘for a walk’ yet.”
“That I believe,” he mutters.
He watches me too closely.
“And you?” he says.
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you haven’t slept since Reagan,” he says.
“You’re older than me,” I remind him.
“Yeah, but I’m pretty,” he says. “You just look like a busted shovel on a good day. Today you look like somebody hit it with a truck.”
I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Almost.
“I slept,” I say. “Some.”
He doesn’t push. He knows the numbers I’ll give him will be lies.
He tilts his head, studying me. “You want out, Kelly? Say it now.”
It actually surprises me.
“You offering to pull me?” I ask.
“You’re no good to me or Tallulah if you’re burned down to the wick,” he says. “I can put someone else on it. Atlas. Ryan.”
“That won’t be necessary. She trusts me.”
“You don’t say.” We both hear Philly in the silence that follows. Kael waits. He’s good at waiting, the asshole.
“This is different,” I say.
One of his eyebrows goes up, slow. “Is it.”
“She’s different,” I say before I can stop myself.
