“I’ll sleep later.”
“Everything that can be done right now has been,” Griffith says. “Get some rest, and then we’ll figure out the next step.”
Carl paces around the open living plan of Griffith’s farmhouse as he runs his hands through his hair until the blond strands stand up at odd angles. Not sure if there’s anything that can calm him down, I do the only thing I can think of. Stepping in his path, I open my arms and pull my brother in for a hug, pressing my face into his shoulder so he doesn’t see the way I wince when the gesture tugs at my side.
Carl lets out a ragged breath, then hugs me back, careful with his embrace.
“Please go sleep.” I rub soothing circles on his back, briefly acting like I’m the responsible one in this dynamic. “I promise I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
“Fine.” He eventually relents. “I’ll take a power nap on the couch.”
“You’ll sleep for at least two hours in your bed.” I step away and turn him toward the door. “Griffith and I are going to watch TV while you rest, okay? We need the couch.”
Carl stares down at me, then glances over my shoulder to share some kind of silent best-friend communication with Griffith.
“Fine.” Carl agrees. “Just a few hours. Then we’ll plan.”
“Then we’ll plan,” I agree as I walk him toward the front door.
Carl sighs, then heads out, crossing the yard to his apartment.
Leaving Griffith and me alone.
When I turn to face the werewolf, I find him watching me.
“You didn’t used to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Care about him.”
Five years of therapy threatens to go out the window at his harsh statement, and I suck in more than one deep breath through my nose to keep a cutting insult behind my teeth. If it wasn’t for my midday library nap, I’d probably eviscerate him. Or at least tell him to fuck off.
“You knew me during the worst part of my life,” I grit out. “It would be lovely if you stopped bringing it up like I was still some angry, petulant seventeen-year-old. You don’t know me anymore.” My voice lowers to a mutter. “Shithead.”
Therapy can only do so much.
Griffith snorts. Then huffs out a breath, kicks off his boots, and strides deeper into his house. I squat down to untie mywhite Converse, and as I do, I spy a few specks of red on the fabric.
At first, the significance doesn’t register. Living in Georgia, I got used to stains from red dirt. But those always lean more orange on the color spectrum. These dots are a dark brick shade.
I suck in a startled gasp.
“What is it?” Griffith reappears like he’d never been far from my side.
I scoop up my shoe and shove it in his face. “Sniff this!”
“Is this some kind of revenge?” he asks, pushing my hand away.
“No.” Once again, I force my footwear under his nose. “This isblood.”
He frowns. “Yeah. You were bleeding not too long ago.”
“On my left side.” With my free hand, I wave at where my wound is, just above my left hip. “This is my right sneaker. I think it’s Luke’s blood. From when I punched him.” I shake the shoe, as if that’ll convince him of its significance. “Does this blood smell like me? Or someone else?”
Griffith pries the footwear from my fingers, and like he doesn’t even care about foot odor, he presses the shoe right up against his nose and inhales a lungful. Then he blinks and mutters, “Got you, fucker.”
“You do?” Hope thrums in my chest. “That’s not my blood?” Maybe I’m not totally useless when it comes to defending this town.
