“Nightmares?” I asked, because I had to. Because that's what fathers did, even when they didn't want to hear the answer.
“No.” Evan's eyes held mine, steady and clear. “Just restless. The forest was loud last night.”
I felt my wolf perk up at that. “Loud how?”
“I don't know. Just... loud. Like it was waiting for something.” He wrapped his hands around his mug. “Probably nothing.”
But his shoulders had gone tight, and we both knewprobably nothingwas a lie we told ourselves to get through the day.
“What time are you due at the garage?” I asked, letting the subject shift. Some conversations needed daylight and distance.
“Seven. Gideon wants to go over the Henderson truck before Henderson himself shows up and starts yelling about how long it's taking.” Evan rolled his eyes. “The man brought us an engine held together by rust and wishful thinking, and he's surprised it's not a quick fix.”
“Henderson's been complaining about wait times since before you were born.”
“Yeah, well, Cal's about two complaints away from throwing a wrench at him, and Mason's running a betting pool on when it happens.” Evan's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “My money's on Thursday.”
“Smart bet.” I drained half my coffee, feeling the warmth spread through my chest. “I'll ride with you.”
Evan's eyebrows rose. “To the garage?”
“Need to talk to Gideon about something.”
“Something.” The word came out flat. Knowing.
“Pack business.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” But his eyes were doing that thing where they saw too much. Claire's eyes, always seeing straight through me. “You just don't usually make house calls before sunrise.”
“I'm not making a house call. I'm catching a ride with my son.”
“To talk to Gideon.”
“Yes.”
“About pack business.”
“That's what I said.”
Evan studied me for a long moment. Then something shifted in his expression, going softer. More careful.
“Dad. Michael's at their old house today.”
My wolf went very still.
“I know,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“Nate's worried about him. I'm worried about him.” Evan set down his mug. “He's been throwing himself into that renovation like he's trying to outrun something. Barely sleeping, barely eating. There were six beer bottles on his counter when I stopped by yesterday.”
“Six.”
“Empty. All of them.”
The image settled in my chest like a stone. Michael Harrington, surrounded by sawdust and grief, drinking himself numb in a house that had tried to kill him.
