Not the softening I see in Coin, not the opening. Something harder. Like she's testing a wall and finding it doesn't move.
She picks up her fork and eats a pancake.
The whole thing, without complaint.
From Wrenleigh, that's practically a declaration of love.
Coin comes inside after the girls have gone upstairs.
He stands in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame the way he does, and I know from the look on his face that he heard at least part of it.
The house carries sound. These walls are thin and Coin hears everything.
"She asked about Angelica," I say.
"I know."
"She asked me to promise I wouldn't leave."
Something moves across his face. Something raw and painful and grateful all at once.
"What did you say?"
"I promised."
He crosses the kitchen, takes my face in his hands and kisses me—not heated, not urgent.
Just deep.
The kind of kiss that saysthank youandI'm sorry you had to answer that questionandI love youall at once, even though neither of us has said those last three words out loud yet.
We will. I know we will.
But not today.
Today there are pancakes on the ceiling and a thirteen-year-old upstairs who just trusted me with the biggest question of her life.
The call comes at noon.
Coin's phone goes off first—the burner, the one he keeps in his back pocket that I've never heard ring before.
He answers it, and I watch the color drain from his face the way it drained in the ER when he saw Wrenleigh's leg.
Fast. Complete. Like someone pulled a plug.
"When?" he says. "Is she—" A pause. "We're on our way."
He hangs up and looks at me.
"Backroads," he says. "Someone firebombed it. Tildie was inside."
We get there in fifteen minutes.
The bar is gutted.
That's the first thing I see—the front windows blown out, smoke still rising from the interior, the neon sign that used to say BACKROADS hanging by one corner like a broken jaw.
Fire trucks are parked at angles across the lot, hoses running, firefighters moving through the rubble in heavy gear.
