Still nothing.
I hesitated, not wanting to touch her without asking, but…she wasn’t hearing me. Slowly, I reached out, laying a hand lightly on her shoulder.
She flinched, eyes snapping to mine in the mirror. They were wide and wild for a second before shame flashed through them.
I pulled my hand back. “Hey,” I said, keeping my tone calm. “What are you doing?”
Her gaze dropped to the papers again. The mess made no sense—files, handwritten notes, books…everything was jumbled.
“You should lay down,” I suggested gently. “Rest.”
At the last word, she spun around, her stare suddenly sharp. “I’m fine,” she snapped.
Her voice cut through the air, brittle and defensive. She glanced around the room, like it was the first time she’d really looked at it. Then she paused on me. Color bloomed in her cheeks.
“I—I should probably go.”
She turned back to the dresser and started frantically shoving everything back into her bag.
I stayed still, trying to think. She was unraveling.
When she turned back toward me, bag dangling over her shoulder, I gave her a look of what I hoped was reassurance.
“You’re welcome to stay here,” I offered.
The red in her cheeks deepened to the color of the bloodstain on her shirt.
She shook her head fiercely, and her eyes went unfocused. She swayed.
I caught her before she could fall, my hand closing around her elbow. She blinked rapidly, struggling to refocus on me.
“You shouldn’t leave,” I warned, my voice dipping low, but firm. “Not right now.”
I didn’t know how to make her listen. She looked at me like a trapped animal, ready to bolt at the slightest wrong move.
She reminded me of some kind of wounded wild cat. A lynx, maybe—small and fierce, all bristling edges, every soft part hidden behind sharp, bared teeth.
If I wasn’t careful, I’d be the next thing she’d maul for getting too close.
Quinn looked toward the bed behind me. Her face reddened again.
“I can’t stay here,” she said in barely more than a whisper.
I stayed very still, my mind whirring. There had to be a solution that wouldn’t make her feel cornered.
I glanced at my watch. “Well, you have some options,” I began carefully. “If I bring you back to the bed-and-breakfast right now, Mom’s still going to be awake. She’ll be up for at least a couple more hours. Which means”—I looked her over, the bruise blooming around her lip standing out against her skin—“she’s going to see you when you come inside.”
All the color drained from her face. Her mouth pressed into a thin line, then she winced as the movement tugged at the cut beneath the bandage. She reached up to touch it, fingers trembling.
Silence hovered between us while she considered everything.
“Or,” I continued, even more gently, “you can stay and rest here. Just for a few hours. You can stay the whole night if you need that, too.”
Her gaze was cautious as she stared at me.
I lifted a hand, palm out. “You can have my room. I’ll take the guest room.”
She shifted where she stood, her body taut with discomfort.
