“I think he’s sad,” she said. “He’s caught in the past, and the more he looks back to what might have been, the less he can function today. D9.”
Oh. “Hit.” Her words, too, hit him in his chest.
He studied the board.
“You okay over there? Bleeding a little?” Her tone had turned mocking.
He glanced up at her. Sorta, yes. He swallowed and didn’t know why his story rose to the surface with the terrible urge to spill out. Still, he took a breath and let it. “The guy who shot the little girl—her name was Kiana, by the way—he got off on a hung jury. The prosecution charged him with first-degree murder and refused a plea request by the defense to lower the charge to manslaughter. And the jury couldn’t convict, so...”
“Hung. Does that mean they can try him again?”
“Yes. But they need...” He looked up at her. “They want me to testify.”
She lifted a shoulder. “And?”
He looked at his board, the red, sunk battleships. “I can’t go back there. Relive it. I gave an initial statement, and...” He made a grim face. “I’ve never felt so...”
“Frustrated?”
He considered her. “Helpless. Angry. I lie in bed at night, and all I hear is Kiana crying, feel her blood on my hands—and it’s not metaphorical. She died, my hand over her chest.” He blew out a breath as his own chest webbed, tightened. “Fact is, I stopped trusting myself that day.”
At his feet, Caspian lifted his head, sat up, and put his muzzle on his knee. Maybe the dog needed to go out.
She shut her board. “Game’s over.” Then she reached out and touched his hand, wrapped her hand over his.
He looked at it. Looked at her. She gave him a tight smile. “You’re not the villain here, Dawson.”
Soft words, but they stilled him.
He took his hand away, ran it across his mouth. “You sure you want to fold?”
“You win.” She leaned back. But it seemed her eyes had filled.
Wait—forhim?
Aw. “I think I need to take Caspian out.” He swung his leg over the bench. Tried not to grunt as he stood up.
“Hey, buddy. Let’s get some fresh air.” He’d found the dog earlier in the kitchen with Wren, who was feeding him.
The children sat around the fire, listening to Nance read a story. Camp, indeed.
Caspian thumped his tail and got up, followed him to the door.
Keely stood there, pulling on a parka.
“What are you doing?”
She looked at him. “I’m going outside to stand in the cold with you.”
Oh. “You don’t have to—”
“I know. Let’s go.”
He had nothing as he put on his boots, pulled on his coat, a hat, his gloves. He followed her outside.
A crew of shovelers emerged every hour to clean off the porch and the steps, so just a thin layer coated the surface as they went outside. The blizzard raged, ferocious in the darkness.
Caspian trotted down the stairs and into the snow, eating a mouthful, as if thrilled by the drifts.
