My stomach flipped. “You really think she can help?”
He looked confident. “If anyone can it’s her. But you’ll have to tell her everything you know.”
I nodded, heart pounding. “Okay.”
Papa finished his coffee, then stood and stretched, all six-foot-five of him filling the little kitchen. “Get your coat,” he said. “We’ll head over there in ten.”
I watched him move around the apartment, cleaning up. He never stopped moving, as if he were afraid the universe would catch up if he stood still too long.
But when he came over, coat in hand, he stopped in front of me and bent down so we were eye to eye.
“You did good today,” he said, voice low. “I’m proud of you.”
I just smiled, and let the warmth of his words carry me into whatever came next.
The drive out to pack land was oddly soothing. The road wound away from town and into a wide sweep of prairie, then dipped through a patch of winter-brown woods, the sun flickering through bare branches and some evergreens like a strobe. Papa kept his hand resting on my knee, thumb tracing slow circles while he hummed along to the radio. I could have spent the whole day in that truck, just listening to his deep, steady breathing and the rumble of the tires on the old caliche road.
But then the houses started to pop up—one after another, each one a little different but all with the same look: strong, practical, but built for family. We pulled into the drive of a pale blue ranch with a big porch and a battered mailbox in the shape of a motorcycle. There was a big Harley and a fabulous sports car parked out front, shining in the winter sun.
We got out, boots crunching on the gravel, and I had just enough time to smooth my skirt before the front door opened and a woman stepped out, propping her hands on her hips. She was shorter than me, with a compact, athletic build and the kind of presence that made her seem taller. Her hair was spiked short, brunette with streaks of pink, and one side was buzzed close to the scalp. Her eyes were a blue so blue they looked like someone had Photoshopped them. She wore black joggers and a t-shirt that said, “Nerd? I prefer the term Intellectual Badass.”
She smiled wide and a little wicked. “You brought the bakery girl! Knew it.”
Papa put his hand on my shoulder, like he was introducing me at a debutante ball. “Aspen, meet Parker. Parker, this is my friend Aspen.”
She yanked the screen door open and ushered us inside. The house was warm and smelled like toasted bagels and cedar. The great room boasted a large sectional that sat in front of a grand fireplace that had a giant TV mounted on the wall above it. A wall of bookshelves anchored the opposite wall. Therewere piles of books everywhere: romance novels, code manuals, ancient histories, thrillers with bright, torn covers. I felt at home instantly.
I was about to say something when a dog bounded out of the back room—a shaggy Yorkie mix, compact, with one ear up and the other flopped over like a soggy taco shell. He skidded to a stop in front of us and gave a little yip. I crouched down, and he licked my hand, tail whipping so hard it thudded against the wall.
“That’s Rocket,” Parker said, fondness softening her voice. “Ugliest dog in the world, but he’s family.”
I knelt down and scratched Rocket behind his good ear, and he melted to the floor, tongue hanging out. “He’s perfect,” I said. “Aren’t you boy? Yes, you are! Such a good boy!” I loved dogs and went on dog-speak autopilot whenever I was around one. I looked up to see two faces staring down at Rocket and me. Parker broke the temporary silence.
“See?” she threw her hands up. “Validation at last.”
There was a clatter from the kitchen, and a man appeared, ducking under the archway with a grace that shouldn’t have been possible for someone so massive. Wrecker was big, even by shifter standards—almost as tall as Papa but leaner, with shoulders like a barn door and arms covered in sleeve tattoos, black and blue and a riot of red. He had tan skin, a scruff of dark beard, and eyes the color of storm clouds. He wore a sleeveless black hoodie and faded jeans, but he carried himself like the room belonged to him.
He nodded at Papa, then fixed his gaze on me. It wasn’t hostile—just that careful, weighing look that said he didn’t hand out trust lightly.
“Wrecker,” he said, offering a hand.
“Aspen,” I managed, shaking it. His grip was warm and surprisingly gentle.
“Coffee?” Parker asked, already heading for the kitchen.
Papa shot me a wink. “She makes the best pour-over in the state.”
“Sit,” Wrecker said, motioning toward the couch. “We can talk in here.”
I perched on the edge of the cushion, Rocket wedged between my ankles, and folded my hands in my lap. Papa sat next to me, arm draped over the back of the couch. Wrecker took the armchair, posture loose but eyes locked on me.
“So,” he said, “you’ve got a stalker with a triangle thing. Parker and I looked at the text.”
Parker came back with four mugs, each a different color, and handed them out. “Drink. It helps.”
I sipped, and the coffee was dark and rich, sweet enough to make my teeth ache. It felt like a warm hug.
Parker pulled a battered tablet from the coffee table and tapped it awake. “Tell me everything,” she said, eyes meeting mine. “Start from when you first saw him.”
