You’re impossible to talk to.

I’m not the only one.

She remembered getting the positive pregnancy test, how she’d cried to her mother for an hour straight. By the time her father had come home, she’d been so ashamed and humiliated that she’d screamed at him and hidden in her bedroom.

She hadn’t been able to make eye contact with him for weeks.

Had she started it? Had she been blaming him for something she’d initiated years ago?

Maybe. But he hadn’t helped.

Hannah looked up at Irish, and she felt a familiar shame creeping up her cheeks. “I don’t know who James’s father is.” She hesitated. She’d never shared this whole story. Not even with Michael. “When I started high school, my father got super strict. I didn’t mind, really—I’d always done everything my parents expected of me. But it almost wasn’t good enough. He’d grill me on where I was every minute of every day. I’d go to the library after school, and if I wasn’t home exactly when I said I’d be, he’d flip out. Once he sent police officers to a friend’s house to make sure I was really there for a sleepover. Just because I didn’t answer my cell phone. Can you imagine how humiliating that was?”

Irish smiled. “I don’t need to. My dad was a cop, too. He used to treat my friends as if they were smuggling pot and whiskey into my house. I wouldn’t accept a ride home from anyone because my dad would be standing in the driveway, wanting to smell their breath.”

Hannah faltered. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” He shrugged. “I think some of it is just being a parent, and some of it is knowing the consequences of poor choices. Well—you know all about that, right? With James?”

She blinked. James wasn’t old enough for her to humiliate him, but she was more cautious than other parents. She’d seen too many injured children to be otherwise. She never let anyone other than her parents drive him around. Michael and his brothers were the first non-family members she’d ever let babysit. When James was invited for a play date, one of the first questions she asked the other parent was whether they had a gun in their home and how it was secured.

Irish was right. She knew too much.

Was that her father’s issue too? Did he know too much?

“I didn’t mean to interrupt your story,” said Irish.

All of a sudden, she didn’t want to finish. She’d always felt a little self-righteous about this part, but now, in this new light, she felt more foolish.

She traced a line in the wood of the table. “During my junior year, a friend’s brother was going to a frat party. He invited her. She invited me.” She shrugged a little. “It was your typical college party. Lots of guys, lots of music, lots of alcohol. I snuck out of my room and we went. I was so ready to break free of all those expectations that I just completely let loose. I met some guy, one thing led to another, and . . . well, you know.”

“I can connect the dots.”

“The party got out of control, and someone must have called the cops. I don’t even know what happened to the guy, but he must have gotten away.”

“And you didn’t.”

She gave him a look. “No. I didn’t. And you can guess who was waiting for me when his underage, drunk daughter was dragged into the police station.”

Irish gave a low whistle. “I bet that was a good time.”

She scowled. “It sucked. It was humiliating. I would rather have been thrown in jail. I sure as hell didn’t give my dad all the details of what had happened. And what sucked more was that I didn’t give the guy another thought until I peed on a stick six weeks later and came up with two pink lines. By that point, I didn’t even remember his name. My friend’s brother didn’t know who he was. It was this one-time random hookup.”

“So you think your dad has been blaming you for all this time.”

“Yeah!”

He spun his coffee mug on the table again. “You don’t think maybe you’ve been blaming yourself?”

“Okay, Dr. Freud—”

“I’m serious, Blondie.” He smiled. “Hannah.” He glanced up at her. “I didn’t even know you had a kid until I showed up at your house. It’s not like you tell everyone about him.”

She had good reason for that. She was sick of being judged by everyone. “You have no idea what it’s like, Irish.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I’m sure it was hard as hell being a mother at seventeen.” He hesitated. “But you’re not seventeen anymore.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you telling me to grow up?”

“No. I’m telling you that you already have grown up.” He paused. “It’s okay to act like it. You don’t need anyone’s approval.”

Wow.

She blushed. “Thanks, Irish.”

He nodded. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m glad you joined the station.”

He made a frustrated noise. “You’re one of the only ones.”

She remembered the comments she’d overheard. “Are you still getting crap from the other guys?”

“We’re south of the Mason-Dixon line. I’m sure I’ll still be getting crap in twenty years.” He paused. “It’s not bad. I’ve heard worse. It just makes it hard to cover some guy’s ass when you know what he thinks of you.”

“Are you going to say something?”

“I’m going to keep doing my job as well as I can.”

“But that’s not right, Irish.”

“I spend a lot of time thinking about right and wrong,” he said. His eyes were very serious. “Sometimes it’s worth losing a few battles to win the war.”

“Maybe,” she said.

“Not maybe. I—” He stopped short and frowned, looking past her. “Look. Is that local?”

She looked at the television, which was still muted. The reporter was in a box at the upper left, but the majority of the screen showed an aerial shot of a large home on an even larger plot of land.

Or what used to be a large home. Because the building on the screen had been destroyed. Fires blazed in four areas that she could see. Smoke streamed from the structure, which was surrounded by fire trucks and ambulances.

Her eyes locked on the closed captioning flashing across the bottom of the screen.

. . . in Annapolis. First responders have yet to identify any survivors. Local sources estimate that twelve to fourteen teens may be in residence at the group home at any given time—

Her heart stopped. What had Michael said?

There’s a part of me that’s relieved that my brothers aren’t here. If no one I know has any idea where they are, they’re safe.

This couldn’t be a coincidence. Couldn’t be.

The guy who sent those texts is dead. But I don’t think he’s working alone.

Shit. She fished her phone out of her pocket and dialed with trembling fingers.

“What’s wrong?” said Irish. “Do you know where that is?”

“Yeah,” she said.

She didn’t expect Michael to answer, so she almost dropped the phone when he did.

His voice came across the line, rough and gravelly. “Hannah. I’m sorry—”

“No. Michael. Listen to me. I’m not calling about that.” Her voice almost broke as she looked at the screen again. “You need to turn on the news.”

CHAPTER 27

They were stopped at the end of the road. The police had set up a barricade. The hell with that. Michael almost shoved Tyler out of the driver’s seat to floor the accelerator.

He must have actually started trying to do that, because Tyler grabbed his arm. “Hey. Take it easy. I’ll park down the road a bit, okay?”

Hunter was in the back seat, but he’d come to the edge to peer around them. His breathing was almost as quick as Michael’s. “Do you think they’re here?”

“I don’t know,” said Michael. After Hannah’s call, he’d stared at the news for a solid minute. His brain hadn’t wanted to process the images or the words—until it all burrowed into his brain with the force of a speeding bullet.

Another bombing. At a group home for teenagers.

Guilt and panic had wound through his thoughts, leaving no room for anything else, and they showed no sign of leaving. To think, a few hours ago, he’d been relieved that his brothers had been taken. Relieved. He’d thought this meant safety for his brothers.

Gabriel had wanted to run from the hospital. Michael had stopped him.

He hadn’t been able to get out of Tyler’s apartment fast enough. Thank god Tyler had followed him to the parking lot, because it wasn’t until he was out in the cold November air that Michael remembered he had no truck, no way to go anywhere.

While Tyler drove, Michael had called the social worker. No answer. No surprise, either, considering it was after eleven on a Sunday night.

Next, he’d called David Forrest, who didn’t have any information, but at least he was awake and concerned and said he’d find out what he could immediately.

After the bombing at the restaurant, Tyler had been able to deflect some of the fire damage. Did Gabriel have the strength to do the same? Were his brothers hiding here somewhere? Would they have tried to rescue the other residents, or would there not have been time?

He texted Hannah. She’d have access to a radio, and she’d know what was going on.

Have they found any survivors?

Not yet.

He gritted his teeth and typed another message. His finger shook as he pressed send.

Have they found any bodies?

No text came through, but his cell phone rang. Hannah.

“We’re five minutes away,” she said. It sounded like she was crying. “I’m trying to reach my dad to get more information, okay?”

“Do you know anything now?” His voice was hollow.

“They’ve found—” Her voice broke. “They don’t know—Michael, I’m sorry.”

“What, Hannah?” He had to choke the words out. Her emotion said more than her words did. “What have they found?”

“No bodies,” she said.

“No bodies,” he echoed. It should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. He felt as if someone else were having this conversation. “Then what?”

Tyler parked the truck beneath some trees a little way down the road. He killed the engine and didn’t move. Michael held his breath, waiting for Hannah’s answer. Hunter shifted closer, trying to listen.

Her breathing kept shaking. She was still crying. “Let me find out more, okay? Wait for me to call you back.”

“No! Hannah! What did they find?”

She choked on a sob. “Parts, Michael.”

“Parts?” He couldn’t make sense of the word.

“From the explosion.” Another hitched breath. “But they don’t know, okay? They haven’t identified anyone. Just wait. Wait ’til we get there.”

Michael couldn’t speak.

Parts. From the explosion.

“Thanks,” he said, and again, it was as if someone else were speaking for him, because his thoughts were tied up in panic and rage.

No wonder the building was still burning. No wonder they hadn’t found any survivors.

His brothers hadn’t been able to stop it.

Michael grabbed the door handle, but Tyler hit the locks.

“Stop,” he said. “Think about what you’re doing. We should have a plan.”

Michael could barely process that. Smoke was in the air and he needed to get out of this truck. He clawed at the lock as if he’d never seen one before. He needed—

Tyler grabbed him. “If some Guide blew up this place,” said Tyler, “he might still be here.”