“Then we give her time.”
“We will.” Maggie pats my arm. “You should rest too. Your ribs aren’t going to heal if you keep running around.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re a terrible liar.” But she smiles. “Just like the rest of them.”
I find Stone on the back porch.
He’s standing at the railing, looking out at nothing, a beer dangling from his fingers. The tension in his shoulders says he’s been carrying the weight of the world again—and probably will keep carrying it, because that’s who he is.
“Hey,” I say.
He turns, his face relaxing when he sees me.
“Hey yourself.” He shifts to make room. “You should be?—”
“If you say ‘in bed,’ I’m going to throw a prospect at you.”
“I was going to say ‘off your feet.’ But the sentiment stands.”
I move to stand beside him, close enough that our arms brush. The night is cool, the stars bright, the sounds of the clubhouse muffled behind us.
“Hell of a night,” I say.
“Hell of a week.”
“That too.”
We stand in silence for a moment.
“She was protecting a six-year-old,” I say quietly. “This whole time. That’s what she was hiding.”
“I know.”
“And we thought she was a spy.”
“We had to be sure.” His voice is tired. Resigned. “It’s my job to be suspicious.”
“I’m not blaming you. I’m just—” I stop, searching for words. “She gave up everything. Her whole life. To keep that little girl safe. And she never asked anyone for help. Not once.”
“Some people don’t know how to ask.”
“Maybe.” I turn to look at him. “Or maybe no one ever gave her a reason to think asking would help.”
Stone is quiet for a long moment. Then his hand finds mine in the darkness.
“She has a reason now,” he says. “They both do.”
I lace my fingers through his. Let myself lean into his warmth.
“We got interrupted earlier,” I say.
“We did.”
“That keeps happening.”
“It does.”
