Page 21 of Striker’s Rebel

“You didn’t need to. Your eyebrows did.”

“My eyebrows were saying hello.”

“Your eyebrows were asking questions.”

“I have several.”

Behind me, Striker makes a sound suspiciously close to a laugh.

I turn. “Not one word.”

He lifts both hands.

That gives Ruth a clear view of the blood across his knuckles.

Before she can ask, the porch light next door snaps on.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Thomas, who’s pushing seventy, emerges in plaid pajama pants, an old cardigan, and slippers shaped like bears.

He squints toward us.

“June?”

“Go back to bed, Thomas.”

Naturally, he ignores me.

His attention finds Striker.

“Well, hell.”

Ruth’s lips twitch.

Thomas walks closer. “You finally bring home a man and pick one who looks like he eats the other ones?”

“Thomas!”

“What? I’m impressed.”

My face burns.

“There is no bringing home. He followed me.”

Thomas stops.

“That sounded worse.”

Ruth nods. “Much worse.”

“He followed me because there was a problem at work.”

Ruth’s amusement vanishes. Her eyes move over me carefully.

“What kind of problem?”

“Handled,” Striker says.