Chapter 11: Her Eyes

"Absolutely not," Keir said.

"He said alone."

"He said a lot of things on that gravel bar too."

We were in Gran's kitchen.

Lorne was asleep on the couch in the next room with his bandaged hands on his chest.

Gran was making a list of everyone she was going to kill, out loud, starting with Delaney.

"He raised me," I said. "Fifteen years. He's never once laid a hand on me."

"He let his sons hunt you."

"He just said he'd tell me why." I picked up my jacket. "I want to know why."

Keir stood in front of the door.

He didn't touch me.

He didn't have to; he took up the whole door.

"Move," I said.

"Lainey."

"You promised. Nobody owns me. That was the deal."

His jaw worked.

The bond pulled tight between us, hot and unhappy.

Then he stepped aside.

"Take your phone," he said.

"Fine."

"Keep it on."

"Fine."

"If he so much as raises his voice"

"Keir." I put my hand flat on his chest. "I've known him since I was seven. I know what he can do."

I didn't, as it turned out.

The cabin looked worse in the dark.

The burned beams stood up black against the stars, and the whole place stank of wet ash.

I sat on the front steps, which had survived, and waited.

Conrad came on foot along the river path at nine, alone, with a flashlight.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked up at the ruin of the roof.

"Jesus," he said quietly.

"Lorne was in the loft."

"I know." He rubbed his face. "I went to see him at the Scanlon place this afternoon. The old woman wouldn't let me past the porch."

"Good."

He almost smiled.

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