When I was a little girl, my sister Monika and I used to play chicken in the dark bedroom we shared in Grandma Eva’s house.

Only, we didn’t play chicken by running at each other and daring the other girl to veer off first.

We played chicken with the scary, jagged shadows that filtered through the window blinds. We danced in our own childhood imaginations, challenging the nightmare shapes against the walls.

Deep down, we knew the shadows were just the street lamps.

We grew up in an old, run-down neighborhood, the type that still had ancient post-style streetlamps with glass globes on top of skinny poles. When headlights swept down the road, the globes became heads and the poles turned into bodies, dancing and writhing over our walls like these black shadow-demons coming to eat our souls.

Depending on the time of night and just how many cars cruised down our street, the angle of the blinds had to be adjusted a certain way to block these scary shadow ghosties.

We knew there was nothing to be afraid of.

We knew.

And our grandmother raised us to be tough; too tough to be afraid of the dark. Or any nonsense.

But underneath the tough little soldiers we’d made ourselves, we were still just little girls.

Little girls missing their mommy and daddy.

Little girls huddling together in the dark, unsure what was worse: being the chicken, or being the one who got up to adjust the blinds and risked peeking outside to see a pair of staring, inhuman eyes leering back in at us.

Even though Monika’s the older one, I was always the one who got up first.

Because Monika might be older, bigger, but she was always the softer sister. The sweeter one.

And even back then, I had to protect her.

So every night, I braced myself and marched over to the window and stared defiantly out into the night with my mouth dry and my heart thumping and my knees weak and trembling.

Every night, I dared the shadow men to reach through the glass and get me.

And every night, there was nothing there.

Until one night, I just wasn’t afraid anymore.

I wouldn’t call what I’m feeling right now fear. Sure, it’s definitely a close cousin to dread, and I feel like I’m playing chicken all over again as I stretch the sleep out of my body, rub at my eyes, and just barely lift one slat of the Venetian blinds to peek outside.

If he’s there, I don’t want him to see me.

I don’t want him to know I’m up, and I sure as hell don’t want him to try to interact with me.

Gabe goddamn Barin.

What was Landon thinking? Shoving this massive bear of a man onto me?

He’s so big, I swear he could step on me and not even notice until he was scraping me off his shoe.

I can’t stand men like that. They like to loom, and they think just by being the biggest, they’re also the strongest, the most imposing, the most right.

Last night, I wasn’t giving him a chance to even try his macho crap, where he puts the shaken little woman in her place and tells her to sit tight while the big man protects her.

I don’t need protecting.

I’m just doing this to humor Landon. A favor between friends. Company rules.

Although right now, as I peer through the blinds, I’m ready to skin Landon right along with Harmon Ketchum.

Yep. Gabe’s still there, parked in his battered, old pickup truck.

I'll bet he even slept there. Loyal freaking guard dog. Ready to greet me with his tail wagging – or if I'm super unlucky, maybe something else.

Great.

I’d tried to be surreptitious, stealthy, but he glances up from whatever he’s gnawing on, hazel eyes locking on me, then lifts a hand in a casual wave.

I can almost hear that slow, deep molasses Southern drawl groaning out “Mornin’, darlin’’ with the gritty texture of dark brown sugar.

Ugh.

And yet again, his lips are moving. He’s mouthing something, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to murder someone if he’s going to be this attentive every hour of every day.

Grinding my teeth, I jerk back from the window.

Okay. Deep breath.

He’s going to get in the way. No doubt about it, and I don’t have time to waste handling him.

I fell asleep at the computer last night, but not before turning up a few good leads. Including the fact that Harmon may be back in town after running away to L.A. to lay low for a while.

I know a few guys who hang out as informal bouncers at a strip club Harmon likes to sleaze around. The Grizzlies Motorcycle Club kind of treats me as an informal little cousin since my dear departed Dad was in their ranks, and late last night, I got a text tipping me off that one of the guys may have spotted Harmon getting thrown out for getting drunk and grabby.

Typical Harmon. Asshole.

You’d think he’d have the sense to keep a low profile, but I'm not mad. The sloppier he gets, the easier it is for me.

If I can just pin him down where he can’t wiggle free, I can squeeze Joannie out of him, and get her home safe where she belongs.

Assuming I don’t beat the holy hell out of him first.

I can’t stand the thought of Joannie alone with that man, living in whatever hellish, slovenly conditions he’s keeping her in. My throat tightens with a barely-contained rage, boiling through me like building steam ready to break.

Who the shit was looking after her while he was busy chasing strippers?

He probably left her alone, expecting her to sleep through the night. I can just see her propped up in the corner of a filthy, stained couch, not even a crib with safety rails, surrounded by empty beer cans and bottles, the floor covered in grunge and probably old needles and a million other things that could hurt her if she fell –

Stop.

I’m working myself up into a fury, fists shaking at my sides. That won't help, especially if it makes me lose my cool on someone pretty soon. I’ve got to keep it together.

Harmon can be sloppy, but I can’t. Anger makes me careless. Makes me rash.

I’ve got to control myself and focus, or he’ll slip through my fingers. Again.

I may already have screwed up somewhere, enough to tip him off, if he’s coming after me and slashing up my car.

Frick, it’s his fault I’m stuck with Gabe in the first place.

I’m gonna punch him extra hard for that.

I can feel the ticking clock in my escalating pulse, counting down how much time I have before Harmon cuts and runs with Joannie, but right now my clock might as well be at a standstill when my day’s already set in stone.

Once a week I drop by Grandma Eva’s place to check in with her and Monika, to try to remind Monika that she’s got family looking out for her. She’s been in a funk since Joannie disappeared, alternating between blaming herself, fatalism, and a sort of fragile, frightened hope.

I don’t think she’s even left Grandma’s house unless she's forced to.

That's not the sister I know. Old Monika used to be up and out all the time. Joannie’s first birthday was christened in a papoose sack while Monika went rock-climbing. With the goddamned baby.

Yeah, I know. Safety ropes, crazy, yadda, yadda, yadda.

I’m just a little on edge right now.

Knowing that Gabe’s going to be tagging along into private family time doesn’t help.

Plus, it's not like I can tell my sis or Grandma what happened, so there’s no reason for him to be there. I hope he’ll just stay outside and avoid notice – if that’s even possible.

Trouble is, Grandma's a bloodhound by nature. She’ll sniff him out like she’s caught the scent of fresh blood.

I groan, dropping my face into my palm, and fish out my phone, firing off a short text.

Grandma’s today. I’ll be out in a minute.

A few moments later my phone hums in my hand. Sure thing, Sunbeam.

A vein above my eyelid twitches, and a tic jumps in my jaw. Sunbeam?

He's a dead man walking. Honest.

Hissing and swearing under my breath, I stalk into the shower, scrub away until my skin goes red, and toss on jeans and a tank top. When I sling my bag over my shoulder and step outside, Gabe is waiting.

He’s stepped out of his truck and leans against the side, slouched with far too much casual grace for someone so huge, his hazel eyes distant and dreamy, expression annoyingly relaxed.

The Gentle Giant trope to a neatly crossed T.

He’s got this kind of quiet pensiveness around him that’s equally calm and just a touch sad, like something happened in his life to kick the fire right out of him and leave him kind of weary and patient. Not weakness, no, but something considered and quiet and steady as stone.

And I don’t want to know what that thing is.

I don’t want to know a damn thing about him.

I don't have the time or the will or the desire to find out.

Really.

His gaze focuses as I approach and lands square on me. He’s got a smile like sunrise, and it turns his eyes the color of hazy sunlight, this deep tawny afternoon gold.

I bite my tongue, blaming the sudden sharp jump of my pulse on tension, stress, and situational awareness.

I don’t like being looked at directly. Usually means someone’s about to start some shit.

But all he does is lean back, stretching one powerful arm back to reach into the truck, shoulders bunching as he retrieves a greasy paper bag from the driver’s seat and offers it to me with those lazy, slow movements that make him seem like a coiled lion dozing on a branch.

All strength and heat contained behind sleepy languor.

“Breakfast,” he drawls. “You look like the type who’ll forget to eat if I don’t remind you, Sunbeam.”

That nickname. What is it with people giving me cutesy names, even if he’s obviously being a sarcastic ass with his Southern 'charm?'

I scowl, snatching the bag from him. “My name isn’t Sunbeam. You call me that one more time, I’ll kick you where the sun doesn’t shine.”

He chuckles, a slow-rolling thing of shivering, darkly breathy sounds. “Duly noted, Drill Sergeant.”

“I will kill you. Totally serious.”

“Don’t doubt it for a hot second, ma’am.”

“Can't you just use my name? Just once?”

He tilts his head, black hair falling across his face in a shaggy mess.

Damn. He’s got starkly Roman features, that mixture of refinement and blue-collar roughness that can’t seem to settle on handsome or pretty, rugged or princely.

He considers my request, pursing his full-lipped mouth, then shrugs.

“Can if it’s all right with you. Ain’t right to use a lady’s name without her permission.”

I stare at him, then roll my eyes. “Another 'Southern thing?'”

“Sure is, Miss Szabo. Just call me the last of the Southern gentlemen.”

“Skylar.”

He grins slowly, eyes glittering. “Miss Skylar.”

I – that isn't – he – oh my God.

“Now you're just fucking with me, aren’t you?”

A noncommittal shrug, but he’s still grinning. “Might be, might not be.”

I don’t even want to admit I want to laugh. But he’s making it really hard to be mad at him right now, so I distract myself by flopping against the side of the Dodge and digging into the bag for whatever trash he’s trying to feed me.

I come up with an egg white, bacon, and cheddar biscuit with hash browns on the side. I blink.

My favorite, unfortunately.

“...why did you get this for me?”

“Eh?” He blinks, and glances at me over the rim of his paper coffee cup. “Just got a double order of my usual.”

“So your usual is egg white, bacon, and cheddar?”

“With hash browns.” He laughs boyishly. “I don’t like the yolks. Too runny and weird.”

“Right.”

I feel a little weird right now. Dunno why.

Maybe it’s just the surrealism of having something in common with someone, when I’m so not used to having anything in common with anyone.

I’ve always been a solitary person, a human cat, just fine with people thinking I’m odd and mean and someone worth avoiding. I’m just...not something other people are easy with.

So, it's strange that Gabe seems like he was made to be easy with just about everyone.

I grumble under my breath and lean around him, tossing my bag through the driver’s side window and sending it sailing onto the passenger seat.

As I do, I brush against his body, that taut, toned slab of his waist, hot through his tight t-shirt.

Holy hell.

I have a funny feeling that shirt isn’t tight on purpose. He’s just such a human wall that it was probably the largest one he could find to fit him without the shoulders busting at the seams.

Those shoulders, two huge mountains, shrug in neutral acquiescence as I bite off, “I’ll eat on the way to my grandma’s. Thanks.”

He blinks at me blandly. “That big a hurry, huh?”

“Ever thought maybe I just want to be rid of you?”

“Kind of hard when I’m the one driving, darli – Skylar.”

Oh, I caught that. Ass.

I narrow my eyes. “You're going to stay in the car, Gabe. Park around the corner. Out of sight. I’ll come to you when I’m done and ready. You’re not going anywhere near my family. And you’re going to stop with even the half nicknames. Got it?”

“Tryin'.” That easy smile again, this time slightly sheepish. “Mighty hard to break thirty years of home training. When everyone’s hon, darlin’, or sugar, remembering names gets real hard, y’know.”

I fold my arms over my chest. “If I beat my name into you, you’ll remember it.”

Gabe stills, looking at me oddly, tilting his head, before he grins. A spark lights his hazel eyes, chasing away some of that quiet pall. “You think you could take me?”

“You think I can’t?”

“Dunno. Don’t know what kind of training you’ve had. You Army, Marines...Navy?”

“Naval Intelligence. How’d you know?”

“Gotta be the way you walk. You move like someone who knows she can hurt somebody. Like somebody who was more than a grunt.” He dips his head. “You walk like me.”

There it is again – that weird pang. That bizarre feeling of commonality. My whole chest tightens up in the weirdest way.

I...I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone put into words that feeling that makes me keep people at arm’s length. Double don't think I've ever had anyone do this – whatever this is – to me. I’m all viciousness and poison and spikes.

If you don’t get close, you won’t get hurt.

But I’ve been like that since long before I had enough training to knock a six-foot man on his ass in five seconds flat. Gabe doesn’t need to know that, though.

I jerk my gaze away and land on a hint of a tattoo peeking out from under the sleeve of his shirt, on his bicep. “Army, right?”

He follows my gaze, then smiles, slowly rolling up his sleeve. His skin bares a downward-pointing inked blue arrowhead with a capital T stenciled in the center. “Third Brigade, Thirty-Sixth Infantry,” he answers ruefully.

“Afghanistan?”

“Iraq.”

I whistle. “You went right out of high school?”

“Before the ink was even dry on my diploma.”

What were you running from? I wonder, but bite my tongue and shove the question away. I don’t want to be curious about him.

I glare away from him, toward the scrub-dotted beach and the rolling, low waves of the tide coming in. “You’re pretty far out of basic, big boy. Bet you couldn’t even stop me before I dropped you on your ass.”

“That a challenge?”

“Might be.” I shrug stiffly, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “I was serious. I drop you, you can it with the nicknames. You drop me, you can call me whatever you want. Deal?”

There's a brutal pause, a silence he fills with yet another of those cocky-and-way-too-adorable smiles. “That’s a dangerous offer, Skylar. I could think of some pretty creative things to call you.”

I cast him a slit-eyed look. “Don’t get cute.”

“Damn, ma'am. You already think I'm cute?”

Oh my God. This is insufferable. The urge to kick that smarmy smirk off his face possesses me like nothing else.

“…do you want me to kick your ass this badly?”

“Just might. Just maybe I like it rough.”

When I realize what he means, my face heats – but he’s still smiling that lazy, confident smile, at once sweet and strangely knowing, like he has secrets I can’t even begin to guess. I growl, saying nothing while he twists to lean into the truck, fitting his coffee into the cup holder, before straightening and brushing past me.

“C’mon, then. If I’m gonna call you Sunbeam, I’m gonna earn it. Fair and square.”

“You’re not earning crap,” I mutter, and follow him out onto the sand.

Gabe rolls his shoulders, loosening up that powerful, hulking beast-body of his.

I’m reminded again of a lion – the great sandy king of the Sahara waking up after a day of drowsing in the sun, coming alive and ready to hunt, kinetic energy hot throughout him. I lift my arms over my head in a quick stretch, rocking on the balls of my toes.

I’m a master of limbering up fast; when someone comes at you in a dark alley, they don’t let you stop to stretch. And before he’s even done shaking his fingers out, I’m taking up a stance opposite him, braced and defensive, hands raised, fists loosely curled.

Okay, Goliath. Let's rumble.

I’m not a puncher. I’m a jabber.

Quick, flat fist strikes to vulnerable spots, moving fast on the balls of my feet. He looks more like the quarterback type – hard charges and bum rushes intended to overpower with his bulk.

So, I’m shocked when he takes up a stance almost identical to mine, mirroring me and watching me with unreadable eyes that do nothing to telegraph his movements.

He’s too big to be this graceful, but he moves with the lightness that can only come with pure, raw strength honed by carrying his own bulk.

I narrow my eyes, calculating, assessing his guard, as we start to circle. I’m looking for my chance, my opening, but I don’t like to make the first move. Not when offensive play shows me an opponent’s weaknesses. I just have to bait him into –

Damn!

He pounces before I even catch him, darting forward during my half-second pause.

A straight forward jab becomes a sweep of his elbow toward the side of my head, and I barely jerk back, his elbow whizzing past the tip of my nose as I bend backward – then duck under his arm, lashing out with my knee – jerking up to ram toward his exposed waist.

But he’s already moving.

Almost spinning, melding into his own momentum, then twisting away, I push past him. The shot missed, and I whirl to face him while he’s closing with a low sweep of his leg toward my ankles.

He isn't throwing anything at me I can't handle. Too bad, so sad, I'm not extending the same favor.

I stomp down hard on his calf, pinning it, then drop myself to the ground, tangle both my legs around his shin, and twist.

When he’s got a good two hundred pounds of muscle mass on me, my best bet is to use his own weight against him.

And Mr. Jolly Green Giant here comes toppling down like a felled tree.

Hell yeah!

I’m on him before he can recover and get up, scrambling up in a shower of sand, climbing his body like he’s a human jungle gym.

I settle over his hips. I should be at his waist, but he’s so tall that any higher and I seriously won’t be able to hook my calves under his thighs to pin them and keep him from trying to get up.

I can barely even get my legs around him; the breadth of his pelvis spreads me open, making my inner thighs hurt, pushing my jeans tight against my flesh. I ignore the hot, tight feeling pulsing inside me, chalking it up to adrenaline, and push my hand against his throat, just barely holding. His pulse is wild under my palm, a scrape of stubble lashing against my skin with every hot thump.

“You lost,” I gasp, raking my hair out of my face with my free hand. “No more nicknames.”

His lips part, but he says nothing.

His tongue darts over his lips, a red thing leaving behind a hot, glistening sheen, and my gut goes tight. He’s breathing hard, too, his chest heaving under me, lifting me up and down over his hips in rapid rhythm.

That’s when I feel it: hardness pushing up between my thighs, straining against the denim of his jeans to rub against me. He’s not doing it deliberately, I can tell, but the position and our own panting breaths practically grind him into me in a rough shock of friction that makes ripples of heat flow over my skin.

My mouth dry, I swallow hard.

I don’t know what to say.

I need to move, but I’m just frozen.

I...I don’t know how to handle this situation. I don’t mind a quick roll to relieve some tension, but I don’t even like to know their names, let alone the small collection of minutiae I’ve picked up about Gabe.

He’s gorgeous with just enough swagger to be charming, and without enough to be arrogant.

In another life, he might be my type.

But not now. Not like this. Not when he’s been forced on me and keeps looking at me like he wants to know me when the only thing he really needs to know is to stay the hell out of my way.

I can’t look away from his eyes – hazel dark and smoky and glimmering, dilated, watching me with a silent and penetrating intensity. I’m struggling for words.

When suddenly he bucks underneath me, his massive bulk completely overpowering me in a single hard, flexing movement. Like nothing, he rolls me over and pins me to the sand underneath his weight.

He’s too heavy. Too hot. Too smothering.

Surrounding me in maleness, his scent like a curtain falling over me, dark coffee and aftershave and something like sharp, tangy woodsmoke. It’s in my blood like I breathed him in and soaked him into me, and my entire body aches with the fierce pressure of him, with the sheer size of him.

My thighs are spread open around him. Like I’m just waiting for him to rip my clothes off and slide in deep, to fill my body, my soul, my everything.

For just a moment, we’re pressed brow to brow, nose to nose, his mouth hovering over mine, parted on shallow breaths. A man his size could completely wreck me.

Here's a confession: just for a little while, deep down inside, I want to be wrecked.

But after that single breathless, eternal second, he digs his hands into the sand to either side of my body and pushes himself up, relieving me of his weight. Then he settles on his knees, shifting our positions, until his thighs straddle and pin me, and holy freaking hell I can still feel the hard ridge of his cock through his jeans, hot against my hips and belly.

He’s a sandy, beautiful mess, and there’s something tight and tense about him. The lion coiled, the king, ready to strike his prey and seize control.

He takes several slow breaths, but nothing clears that fierce, focused expression on his face.

There’s a burning, raw edge to his voice as he drawls, “Wanna call this one a draw, Skylar?”

The way he says my name hits in a hot punch to the gut – like he can taste it.

Like he can taste me.

No. God, no. I can’t...I can't...there’s a panic I don’t understand, condensing my heart into a hurting little ball in my chest, and I squirm underneath him. “Yeah. Y-yeah, just get the fuck off me.”

He’s off me in a heartbeat, sand showering off him as he stands. That wild smolder vanishes, replaced by a searching, worried look.

“You okay?” he asks, offering me a hand up. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? Shit, Skylar, I –”

“No.”

As if I’d ever give someone like him the power to hurt me.

Ignoring his hand, I stand quickly, brushing myself off and pushing past him, back toward the truck. Whatever.

We had our little power play, and at least now he knows I can knock his balls off if he gets too annoying. It’s time to stop screwing around and get moving.

“Let’s just go,” I start moving and don't look back.

“Sky,” he calls after me, almost pleading.

If it wasn't for his tone, the cadence in his baritone voice that says, for some ungodly reason, I care...I stop, closing my eyes and clenching my fists.

“What?”

He’s silent coming up behind me, but I can still feel him. He's all presence, like that sunlight in his eyes is radiating toward me in vivid rays. He stops, so close I know – I know, without even looking – that if he wanted to he could reach for me, touch me, draw me in.

“It was just playing,” he murmurs. “I wasn’t gonna touch you or do anything you didn’t want. It was just a sparring match. A tumble.” His voice softens. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. Not now. Not ever.”

“Whatever, Gabe. I don’t need you to tell me that,” I snarl.

And then I'm done. Heart still frozen and fist still aching, I pull away from him and shut myself in his truck.

The drive to Grandma’s is silent and tense.

Gabe’s own silence is almost contrite, which just makes me angrier and angrier and I don’t know why. I think the only reason I don’t curse him out is because I’ve got food to stuff in my mouth, but even that pisses me off when this annoyingly handsome stranger has to go and understand me in weird ways.

And when he keeps looking at me like this sad puppy, who just wants to help, but knows damn well I’ll kick him in the teeth if he even tries.

Jerk. Devil. Ass.

He wasn’t supposed to be so nice.

Honestly, I can’t afford a distraction like Gabe. And I’m so ready to tumble out of his truck the second he parks around the corner from my grandma’s house. It's tucked in the lovely retirement neighborhood I helped her move into with my Navy pension. Grandma Eva shares a cute little duplex with Monika so she could help with the baby before everything went to hell.

I don’t think she can see us through the kitchen window looking out over the side street, but I’m still wary for any signs of movement through the curtains as I turn back around. The last thing I need is Grandma seeing me with this beast of a man, and asking questions.

If you've never been interrogated by a woman who survived communist Hungary fifty years ago, and clawed every bit of her new life out in the States, you don't know the fear.

You don't have a freaking clue how potent, how real, how heavy it is when the same woman starts asking you about men. Especially after you've sworn your whole adult life you're just too ambitious to ever settle down into the neat, happy married life Grandma always wanted.

“I’ll text you when I want you,” I tell him. “Just sit tight and stay out of sight. Please.”

He drapes an arm against the steering wheel, shrugging. “Sure, but I’m happy to chauffeur your whole family around. It’s a big truck. You need me, you holler. Treat me like your own personal Lyft driver.”

“You’re not my personal anything,” I shoot back a little too quickly. “Look, you don’t want to get tangled up with my family. Our business isn’t yours.”

“What business?” he asks mildly, his expression just a little too bland.

“Exactly. ‘What business.’ Let’s keep it that way.” I loosen my belt buckle and point at him sternly. “Sit. Stay. Thanks.”

That earns me an amused smirk. “Yes, ma’am.”

Dear God.

I’d scream, if it wouldn’t mean Grandma charging out of the house with her broom hoisted like an AK-47, ready to destroy the source of my commotion.

I start turning away, but Gabe stops me with a call of my name. “Sky.”

Biting back a growl, I clench my fists, then turn back, glowering at him. “What?!”

He reaches out and traces his thumb down my cheek – the callus on his thumb-tip rough, rough enough to make me aware of the contrast of my own skin, making me feel soft when soft isn’t something I know how to be.

I freeze. I’m on the verge of snapping, of batting his hand away, my chest fluttering, when he smirks and pulls back. Right in the nick of time.

“Had a little sand left there,” he drawls, before his gaze dips down to my chest. “Might want to brush off.”

My face burns. I look down. There’s still some sand clinging to my chest, right where my breasts surface above the neckline of my tank top, stuck to the film of summer sweat between.

Okay. So the jerk's got me, but I can’t help but feel like he’s just using that as an excuse to stare.

Wrinkling my nose, I turn my back on him before brushing off hastily, lifting my chin, and slipping around the side of the house to the back fence.

It’s unlatched, as usual. Even now, Grandma's a little too trusting. Or a little too sure she can handle anything that comes through that door.

She’s this weird mix of old-world stubbornness paired with this faith in humanity that I was never quite able to learn. Pushing the gate open, I head up to the back door and let myself in, almost tiptoeing, waiting for the interrogation about the man in the truck.

But all I hear are voices.

Voices raised in laughing conversation, coming from the dining room.

I peek around the kitchen door. Grandma Eva – as short as I am but more stout, with her iron-gray hair braided and then twisted up into a bun – sits at the table with a familiar figure, the neighbor from down the street.

It's Jim Appleroth. He’s like the neighborhood Mr. Rogers, slim and pleasant, always a kind word for everyone. Always a gentle way of treating people that goes above and beyond people trying to score social karma points.

I first met him the day we moved into our old duplex when I was just a kid. Just a guy from Grandma's cooking classes who'd volunteered to help when he heard she was moving. He saved me from a broken ankle when the heavy box obstructing my vision meant I missed the loose stone on the front walk and nearly went flying. He caught both me and the box, set us both to rights, and set about promptly fixing the loose stone himself with a bit of caulk and sealing putty.

When they moved into Jim's neighborhood years later, I was glad. He’s been a rock solid family friend ever since, and he’s probably the only thing keeping Monika from pulling a complete and total Ophelia.

She always lights up when he’s around, especially when he stops by with a fresh batch of baked desserts. I kind of get the feeling, sometimes, if Mr. Appleroth were a bit younger he might have just made a play for Monika.

Sometimes, I also get the feeling Monika cares less and less about age. Can I blame her?

Maybe after dating demon-losers like Harmon, sis kind of enjoys the male attention without any obligations or trickery.

If it makes her feel better, fine.

Let Mr. Rogers hold her hand all he wants.

Jim’s shoulders are drooping today, though, as he looks down into his coffee cup and sighs. “I wish I could do more,” he says. “Lord, if I’d just been a little more vigilant –”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jim,” Grandma says firmly and covers his hand with hers, reaching around the basket of fresh-baked apple turnovers sitting on the table, filling the room with their scrumptious scent. “It’s not your responsibility. You weren’t even there.”

No, he wasn't.

I was.

That ugly truth stings as hard as a slap, but I know she doesn’t mean anything by it.

Grandma doesn’t even know I’m standing here. But I only get about half a second more of secrecy before her German Shepherd, Eber, lifts his big head off his paws and lets out a ringing, joyous bark before practically tackling me backward into the kitchen.

I get a face full of wet dog tongue and over a hundred pounds of fur threatening to bowl me over. I brace my feet and stagger, but manage to stay upright, catching him in both arms and smiling as I ruffle his fur. “Hey, boy. Hey. Missed me?”

“Skylar!” Grandma nearly crows my name. “Get your sweet little rear over here. He’s not the only one who’s missed you.” She’s on her feet in a flurry, gently gripping Eber’s collar and coaxing him down. “Come on, now, baby. Down, down. Sit.”

Only my grandmother could call a dog the size of a teenager 'baby.'

I brush myself off, catching my breath, and flash Jim a smile. “Hey, Mr. Appleroth.”

“Skylar.” He stands and captures both my hands, squeezing them gently, and for a moment I almost crack.

It hurts my soul that there are still good men in this world while there's so many evil ones, bastards like Harmon.

Jim's like that guy who's everyone’s Dad, and I’m barely holding it together. I can’t handle gentleness, empathy, or the warmth in his eyes as he looks down at me with a kindly smile. “It’s so good to see you. When are you going to start calling me Jim?”

“Maybe in a few years,” I manage with a shaky laugh, squeezing his hands back and then letting go quickly.

Grandma clucks her tongue. “You won’t have that long, Sky, I'm afraid. Jim was just telling me he’s moving.”

I blink, propping myself in the kitchen doorway. “Moving? You are?”

“I was thinking about it. Been pushing back my retirement dreams forever.” He sighs heavily and settles back in his chair, curling his hands meticulously around his coffee cup. “I’m starting to feel my age. I've got family out in Montana – distant cousins, yes, but I think I’d like to be around my people. Always loved the mountains, the open sky, and the biggest darn fish you can pull from the rivers. A little country fresh air would be nice, too. A little quiet. Malta’s very far off the beaten path.”

I frown. “Malta? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Tiny place. Nothing but an Amtrak station and a couple thousand people. I think I saw it on one of those tourist shows once,” Grandma interjects, squeezing past me into the kitchen. “Sit, sit.”

She says it to me the same way she says it to the dog, and I bite back a grin. “I’ll pour you a cuppa Joe.”

“No coffee for me this morning, Grams. I’m just gonna head up.”

She stills, carafe like a rock in her hand, and gives me a long, measuring look. “She’s...”

I wince. “Worse today?”

“Wouldn’t even see Jim.”

God. Poor Monika.

“Now, now, I don’t want to impose on her,” Mr. Appleroth says cheerfully. “Monika doesn’t have to see me if she doesn’t want to.”

“Yeah, but she always wants to,” I whisper. Worry curdles in my stomach, but I keep it to myself and flash them both a fake smile and then head for the stairs. “I’ll be back in a bit. Give me a few.”

The grave silence that follows me upstairs says more than any words.

I know what I’ll see upstairs, but that doesn’t mean I’m not dreading it. Monika almost never goes home to her half of the duplex anymore, and pretty much lives in Grandma’s bed.

That’s where I find her: tucked under the covers like a Victorian heroine, pale and morose, just wasting away. The shadows under her eyes say she hasn’t slept in forever. Probably days.

Her mood pulls her between insomnia and putting her down like a bear in hibernation.

But she sure as hell snaps up the second I knock on the doorframe and lean in.

“Hey, sis.”

She rockets up in bed. Her hands are shaking claws clutching the blankets, and she looks at me with a sort of frantic, fixed desperation. “Anything?” she asks with no preamble. “Have you found anything new, Sky?”

Dammit, no. I haven't. Not enough. And there goes any hope of deflecting 'the talk' I dread every time I see my sister.

I sigh, stepping into the room, settling to sit on the edge of the bed.

“No,” I bald-faced lie.

The good thing about being as blunt as I am is that I can just blurt out anything and people will believe it’s fact. I’ll feel guilty about it later when I’m not trying to keep my sister from a nervous breakdown.

I'm not telling her about Harmon. No good will come of it. Not unless he's in police custody, or I've beaten the truth out of him myself.

I reach for her hand, pry it free from the covers, and curl it into mine. “I’d have called you if there was, ‘Nika. You know that. But I’m working on it. And the FBI might have something new, too.”

Yeah, right. Might.

The asshole working our case basically dropped it after the first forty-eight hours and always manages to be out of the office every time we call.

I saw him on the news last week looking smug over another case. He'd helped catch an infamous local serial killer.

I mean it’s great they caught the monster, but the agent’s still one of those dicks who’s only in it for the praise and career advancement. He only cares about the cases that get him the most media attention and the best shot at a shiny book deal.

Fuck him. It's up to me to track down Joannie. I’ll solve this case myself.

But if I’m going to do that, I need to be sure Monika’s on an even keel.

I squeeze her hand tighter and manage a smile. “Hey. C’mon. I’ll take you out to lunch, get you out of this house. My treat.”

That gets a wavering smile out of her. “Bull. Your cheapskate ass never pays.”

“What can I say? I’m frugal.”

“You have enough money for a nice condo, and you still live in Dad’s old fishing shack. That’s not frugal, that’s skinflint.”

I smile faintly. We both know why I live the way I do.

I pay half of Grandma’s living expenses. A little social security and a tiny pension from the furniture factory she worked at for over twenty years aren't enough for California real estate.

Anything to get her out of that bullet-ridden rathole neighborhood we grew up in. Anything to give her a place for her garden, for Eber, for Monika.

She did so much for us, gave up so much.

It’s the least I can do to pay her back.

“Hey, listen, you want me to spend my money, so let me spend it on lunch,” I say. “Might be the last chance you get to squeeze a dollar out of these tight-clenched hands.”

She laughs shakily. “Sure, Sky. I’ll go just so you’ll stop making up weird excuses to get me out of the house.”

“Whatever it takes. Consider yourself lucky. Next I was gonna carry you out slung over my shoulder.” I lean in and kiss her forehead. “Pretty yourself up. Your boyfriend’s downstairs.”

She shoves me away, but she’s blushing faintly. “He’s not my boyfriend. Are you crazy? He’s too old.”

“But you like it when he tells you you’re beautiful anyway.” I laugh and ruffle her hair, then head downstairs. “I’ll go talk Grandma into coming. See you when you’re ready.”

She sticks her tongue out at me, but I can’t help smiling. For once, it's not fake.

It’s good to see a little life in her, and I’m feeling a bit lighter as I head downstairs to tell Grandma about lunch while we hang out with Mr. Appleroth for a while longer.

It’s a different Monika who comes downstairs, her hair freshly washed and her face glowing. Her deep-pink sundress brings out her tan and makes her dark hair seem to shine.

It’s not hard to tell it’s an act, especially with how thin she is and how little the makeup covers the bags under her eyes, but it’s something. Though her smiles are pale, weak, they’re still there as she flits over to kiss Mr. Appleroth’s cheek and let him flatter her with hugs and gentle compliments. He even manages to talk her into eating one of his turnovers.

Then we’re out the door, bidding Jim goodbye, and calling for a Lyft.

A real lift with Uber, not my so-called Louisiana bear of a ‘personal Lyft driver.’

The last thing I need is mixing up my high-strung, volatile family with Gabe.

I can barely see his truck around the side of the house, and I pointedly ignore him as we get into the nice, glossy Camry sedan that pulls up to the curb to take us out to my sister’s favorite beach-side crab shack in San Francisco.

We leave Grandma's car parked in the driveway. I try to avoid it when I go out with them, just in case anyone watching me takes note of the plates and goes after them next. A rideshare is safer.

The atmosphere at the crab shack is lively and friendly, and it’s not long before the familiar atmosphere has us relaxed and comfortable, until it almost feels like old times. The only thing missing is little Joannie in a high chair, waving around a tiny toy crab mallet and smearing Jell-O all over her bib.

I don't let the sudden breathless, gut-wrenching pang show on my face.

Not when Monika actually looks happy, and I can’t bring her down from that one rare moment. I look away quickly to compose myself, pretending I'm scanning for the waiter.

Then I catch a glimpse of rust-red color out of the corner of my eye, through the window. My head whips around just in time to watch a familiar battered Dodge come rolling into the parking lot.

Gabe.

Kill me now.