She typed for a while. I didn’t need to guess who it was. There was only one man she’d risk me for, and his face was already burned into my desk downstairs, in color and black-and-white.
She finished, then rolled to her back, phone clutched to her chest like a rosary. Her breathing slowed. Eventually the phone slipped to the pillow, and I heard the long, even rhythm of a child asleep.
I went back to my study, poured the last of the bottle into my glass, and dialed Silas.
He answered on the first ring. “Sir.”
“Tomorrow,” I said. “She’s going to meet him.”
“Should I take a crew?”
“Alone. I want to know where, when, and what for. Don’t interfere unless she’s in danger.”
A pause. “She’s always in danger, Reverend. That’s why you keep me around.”
I smiled, more teeth than joy. “Watch her. Report. Do nothing unless I say.”
“Understood.” He hung up, because he knew there was nothing left to say.
I stayed up until four, tracing the edge of her window with my eyes from the kitchen, watching for the glow of her phone. Nothing. When I finally slept, it was on the sofa, with the house locked down and the alarm set to beep if a mouse farted.
In the morning, I watched her at breakfast. Her face was pale, eyes rimmed with mascara she hadn’t bothered to scrub away. She picked at her toast, said thank you, and left the house at exactly 7:02. Silas would tail her from the end of the block, in a car so nondescript you’d have to be God himself to notice it.
As the door shut, I felt something old and familiar—grief, maybe, or pride gone sour—turn over in my gut. I poured coffee, black as judgment, and told myself it was better this way. If you want to save someone, you have to be willing to destroy them first.
She was going to meet the biker. She was going to lie again, and maybe sleep with him, and maybe break both our hearts. I’d let her do it. But I’d be waiting on the far side of it, ready to catch her when she fell.
After all, that was my job. The shepherd never blamed the sheep for wandering; he blamed the wolves.
And I’d already made up my mind how to handle those.
13
Darla
Coffee shops in downtown Lexington smelled like wet dog, but at least they didn’t judge you for what you wore or who you walked in with. Axel was already waiting outside when I rolled up, pacing like a caged zoo animal, his boots stomping the frozen spit of the sidewalk with each lap. He wore his cut even in the cold of winter—worn leather, faded patches, the collar stained with old sweat and rain—but the way he kept yanking his sleeve down to cover the yellowed bruises said he wasn’t proud of the last fight he’d lost. Or maybe it was the first fight he hadn’t started.
He saw me, and I could feel his pupils go wide even from a block away, the way a dog perks up at the sound of the can opener. I had on my best “fuck you, Dad” outfit—low-rise jeans, a halter with just enough fabric to pretend I cared, and a thrift store jacket that still reeked of patchouli from its last owner. My cross necklace glared against my skin, a beacon of hypocrisythat I didn’t bother tucking in. I wanted him to see it. I wanted everyone to see it.
Axel didn’t greet me with a hug or a handshake, just a nod and a look up and down, like he was running diagnostics. His cheek was swollen where the stitches had been, but the bruising looked almost pretty in the early winter light.
“Nice shiner,” I said, tucking my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t grab his face.
“Wait’ll you see the other guy,” he said, voice shredded by Marlboros and regret. “You want coffee or just the illusion of being awake?”
We went inside, instantly swallowed by the smell of burnt espresso. The barista was a guy with purple hair and an eyebrow ring that looked infected. He gave us a once-over and then, clocking Axel’s jacket, gave us a twice-over, like he couldn’t decide if we were going to rob the place or fuck on the pastry case.
We took the corner booth, far from the windows, the paint on the Formica table bubbling up like it was about to confess to something. Axel ordered black coffee. I ordered green tea to keep up appearances.
The silence between us felt less like awkwardness and more like a prelude. He tapped his finger on the rim of his mug, never looking away from me. I licked the sugar off the tip of my spoon and met his stare. If he was waiting for me to say something real, he’d have to wait.
“Don’t you ever get sick of people staring at you?” I finally asked.
He shrugged. “They can stare, but they can’t touch.” He cracked his neck, then leaned in. “You don’t exactly blend in, you know. With the necklace and all.”
I let the cross dangle, daring him. “Some people wear it because they believe. Some people wear it because their dad’s the pastor and it’s part of the uniform.”
He snorted. “And which are you?”
