I closed my eyes and let water wash away the sweat, the fight, the dirt.
Myra tapped the door.
“Painkiller.” She stuck her hand in the shower.
I took the two ibuprofens and swallowed them down with warm water.
“Thanks.”
“Take your time. I’ll be downstairs.”
I heard her close the door, and then, finally alone for the first time, I thought back through what we knew about the attack so far.
Almost nothing.
I wanted to know what those people’s orders were.
I wanted to know who was behind this.
On top of that, I wanted Ryder home.
“He will be fine,” I said. “He will be home soon.”
I lingered, but finally turned off the water, dried myself, and walked into the bedroom where I dressed in sweats.
I heard the front door open downstairs and wondered if Jean was taking Spud out again, but then I heard his low, soft voice.
I leaned against the dresser, hung my head and just listened to him: Ryder.
He was curious, happy, a little tired. But then there were other voices, my sisters explaining things to him. Frigg too.
Before they could finish giving him the rundown, his heavy work boots crossed the floor.
The whole of him was a storm stomping upward, thunder cracking two stairs at a time. His hand slapped and released the banister as he surged, wind-pushed, furious, to our room.
To me.
But he stopped there.
He didn’t storm into the room.
No, not Ryder.
He waited on the other side of the door for a moment. His breathing settled. He cleared his throat. Small sounds of his arms shifting, his shoulders rolling.
The man was trying to shed his own fear and anger before he stepped into the room with me.
“I can hear you on the other side of the door,” I said quietly.
“You can, can you?” he said just as quietly, not opening the door yet.
“I’d know you were there even if I couldn’t hear you.”
“How?”
“Your presence. You’re becoming something familiar to me, Mr. Bailey. Something a little bit precious.”
“A little bit?”
