"Teddy!" I dropped to my knees beside him, and he launched himself into my arms, his small body trembling violently. His face was wet with tears, his breath coming in hitching gasps.
"Mama," he sobbed against my shoulder, his fingers digging into my shirt.
"I'm here, baby. I'm here." I held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other wrapped protectively around his small frame. "You're safe now. I've got you."
But as I held him, I realized something was wrong. This wasn't the anger I'd expected, or even the pain from our earlier confrontation. This was fear—raw, genuine terror.
"Teddy, what's wrong?" I pulled back just enough to look at his face, brushing the tears from his cheeks. "What happened?"
His eyes were wide, darting toward the ruins of the bakery across the street. "The bad man," he whispered, his voice shaking. "The bad man at the bakery scared me."
Ice flooded my veins. I looked up, scanning the rubble, the street, the darkening shadows. "What bad man? Teddy, who did you see?"
The area appeared empty. No movement among the debris. No figures lurking in the growing darkness. Just the skeletal remains of my bakery and the lengthening shadows as day surrendered to night.
I looked back at my son and pulled him close again, my arms a fortress around his small body. "It's okay. You're safe now. I won't let anyone hurt you."
But even as I spoke the words, unease prickled down my spine. Someone had frightened my child. Maybe it was Farris Clegg. Maybe that bitch Charlene. I was seriously going to kick her ass.
A shadow moved at the edge of the street, tall and broad-shouldered. At first glance my heart leapt—Cristox! Relief flooded through me for one precious moment.
But as the figure stepped into the dim street light, ice crystallized in my veins.
Not Cristox.
Charlene's brother emerged from the shadows, his enormous frame unmistakable even in the fading dusk. He had to be six-five, maybe two-fifty, all broad shoulders and thick arms. I'd seen him around town plenty of times, usually trailing after his sister like a loyal puppy, a vacant expression on his face. I knew he'd suffered some kind of injury that left him mentally incapacitated.
"Peanut?" I called out. "What are you doing out here?" If Charlene was scaring my son, it stood to reason Peanut would be nearby. The one decent thing I knew about Charlene was that she was fiercely protective of her brother. She barely let him out of her sight. Yet as my gaze swept the area, I caught no sight of her. What the hell was he doing out here alone?
Peanut didn't answer, just kept walking toward us with that slightly uneven gait of his, one foot dragging just a little.
Teddy's small body went rigid in my arms, every muscle tensing.
"That's him," he whispered, his voice high and tight with fear. "That's the bad man, Mama."
My blood turned to ice. "What? Teddy, no—that's just Peanut. He's harmless, baby. He wouldn't—"
But Teddy was shaking his head frantically, pressing himself against me, trying to make himself smaller. "No, Mama. That's him. That's the bad man. He tried to grab me."
Peanut kept coming, his face blank in the shadows, his heavy footsteps echoing with a steady, inexorable rhythm.
And suddenly, nothing about this felt harmless at all.
I stood slowly, keeping Teddy behind me, one hand pressed protectively against his small chest. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I forced my voice to stay steady. "Peanut, you scared us half to death. You need to go home now. Your sister's probably worried sick about you."
He stopped a few feet away, his head tilted at that odd angle. For a moment, he just stared at us, his face slack and empty.
Then he laughed.
It wasn't the high-pitched, childlike giggle I'd heard from him before. This was low and knowing, a sound that made my skin crawl. His whole demeanor changed, the vacant expression melting away like a mask being peeled off. His eyes sharpened, focused, intelligent in a way that made my stomach drop.
"Go home?" he repeated, his voice completely different now—clear, articulate, the words perfectly formed. "Not yet."
The uneven gait straightened. The slouched shoulders squared. He stood there looking at me with a calculating expression that had nothing to do with brain damage or childlike innocence. This was the look of a predator sizing up its prey.
"Oh God," I breathed, realization spinning through my brain. "You're not—you were never—"
"Handicapped?" He smiled, and it was the coldest thing I'd ever seen. "Oh, I had my head caved in on Theta-9, and it took me a while to recover. The Garoot Healer helped too. But it's amazing what people will overlook when they think you're too stupid to be a threat."
