“Good.”
He goes back to drying his hands, methodical, thorough. But there’s a tremor in his fingers that wasn’t there before. A tightness around his eyes that has nothing to do with the fight.
I’ve known Brick for years. Watched him walk into firefights without flinching, take bullets without complaint, put down threats with cold efficiency. I’ve never seen him rattled.
He’s rattled now.
Whatever he saw in that house—whatever memories it dragged up—it got under his skin.
I don’t ask. He wouldn’t answer if I did. Best I can do now is wait for him to decide what filth is sitting under his skin that he wants to share.
Unfortunately, this isn’t my first rodeo waiting out men who would prefer to punch out their feelings than talk about them.
Though, if he asked, I’d let him go a few rounds with the new prospects.
Silence stretches between us.
“I thought she was a plant,” Brick says quietly. “Followed her expecting to find a traitor. Instead I found—” He stops. Shakes his head.
“I get it”
He looks down at his ruined hands. “There was something about that house. The way it smelled. I knew before I knew, if that makes sense.”
It does. I’ve had moments like that—where your gut understands something before your brain catches up.
“You did good tonight,” I say. “Whatever else happens, you did good.”
Brick nods once. “She doesn’t know if I’m real.”
“What?”
“Isabel.” He almost smiles. “She’s been looking at me like she’s trying to figure out if I’m real.”
“Give her time. She’s had a rough night.”
“Yeah.” He wraps the rag around his knuckles, makeshift bandage. “She’s had a rough life.”
I can’t argue with that.
JOSIE
The chaos settles as the night wears on.
Lily has fallen asleep on the couch, the sandwich mostly eaten, the rabbit clutched under her chin. Someone has found a blanket—soft and pink, probably Emma’s contribution—and tucked it around her small body.
Isabel sits beside her, refusing to move despite Maggie’s protests. She’s been bandaged and dosed with painkillers, but she won’t leave her sister’s side. Won’t even close her eyes.
“She needs to rest,” Maggie murmurs to me. “They both do. But she won’t go anywhere without the kid.”
“Then we make sure they stay together.”
“We will. Ginger’s already setting up the big guest room—the one with two beds.” Maggie shakes her head. “That poor girl. Both of them. What they must have been through...”
I don’t want to imagine it. The bruises tell enough of the story.
“She’s safe now,” I say. “That’s what matters.”
“Is she? Safe doesn’t just mean walls and locks. Safe means feeling like you can breathe. Feeling like the worst is over andyou can trust those around you.” Maggie looks at Isabel, still rigid on that couch. “That kind of safety takes time.”
