I rub my cheek, feeling the heat there. "Yeah… Feisty."
"You need any help with her?" He's still watching the door where Sloane disappeared. "I can have Varen stop by, check in on the situation."
"We're fine. It's just a family disagreement." I grab the grocery bags, eager to end this conversation. "Thanks for asking."
"Anytime. That's what we're here for." He tips his hat and moves past me toward the coffee aisle. "Take care of yourself, Strouse. And keep an eye on your sister. Wouldn't want another incident."
I pay for the groceries and head outside. Sloane's leaning against the truck, arms crossed, radiating fury. I load the bags into the bed without speaking, then climb into the driver's seat, and she gets in and slams her door hard enough to rattle the frame.
"Medication situation," she spits. "Mental health. He talked to me the way you'd talk to a child."
"You slapped me."
"You deserved it." She whirls on me. "You're telling the entire town I'm crazy. You've made me into a joke, someone to bepitied or patronized. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?"
"It keeps you alive." I start the engine, pulling out of the parking a little faster than I should, and my tires spit gravel. "Would you prefer I tell them the truth? That you're connected to a Mob execution and someone's using you as bait? That'd go over great at the next town meeting."
"I'd prefer you treat me with basic human respect."
"Respect?" I laugh bitterly. "You want respect, start by not volunteering us for parties we don't have time for. We're trying to survive, not make friends."
"Maybe making friends is how we survive." Her voice drops, losing some of its heat. "You've been hiding up here for five years, keeping everyone at arm's length. Has it made you safer, or just more alone?"
The question is loaded and I don't answer it. I can't, because she's right and I hate that she's right.
We drive in silence with tension thick enough to choke on. I should be focused on finding whoever sent that bullet. Instead, I'm noticing the way afternoon light catches in her auburn hair, the stubborn set of her jaw. The fire in her hazel eyes that refuses to be extinguished no matter how hard I try.
She's trouble. The dangerous kind that gets under your skin and makes you forget why you built walls in the first place.
And she's wearing my clothes, which shouldn't matter but somehow does, and I'm trying very hard not to notice.
"For the record," I say as we turn onto the gravel road leading home, "the slap was a nice touch. Very convincing."
She glances at me, surprise flickering across her face. "It wasn't fake. I wanted to hit you."
"I know. That's what made it convincing." I rub my cheek, which is still stinging. "You've got a decent right hook for a nurse."
"I've hit combative patients before. You're not special." But the corner of her mouth twitches in almost a smile.
I pull up to the cabin and kill the engine, and we sit there for a moment as the fight drains out of us, replaced by exhaustion. Three days of close quarters, constant tension, and the ever-present threat of violence have worn us both down.
"I'll go to your party," I finally say. "But we leave the second anything feels off. Understood?"
"Understood."
"And you stop trying to fix my diet."
"Not a chance." She opens her door, stepping out into the cool October afternoon. "Someone has to keep you alive long enough to catch whoever's after us."
She heads inside with two bags of groceries, leaving me sitting in the truck. And despite everything—despite the danger, the lies, the complications she's brought into my carefully ordered life—I catch myself smiling.
The woman is going to be the death of me.
But at least it won't be from clogged arteries.
6
SLOANE
