“Maybe I have a list of people I could ask out to a martini lunch.” Her cloudy gaze had cleared, and she gave him a steady look. “But you were the only person I could call tonight. You’re the only one who understands what I’m going through. I didn’t even know if you would pick up, but then you did, and that was when I knew you would help me.”

“I almost didn’t, and it would have served you right.” He glared at her, then stood to pace.

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But I’m not going to apologize for losing my temper. In some ways you’ve helped me, but in others… Josiah, you’ve not treated me very well.”

The room felt too small and confined. He stood in the open doorway and looked out at the rest of the unfinished basement while resting hands on his hips and tilting his head back and forth to ease the tense muscles in his neck and shoulders.

She was right. He hadn’t treated her very well. Meeting Molly, and interacting with her, was like confronting himself in a fucking mirror after decades of avoiding his reflection.

And he didn’t particularly like the man he saw. He had fallen into the habit of seeing people and things as potential tools he could use to achieve his objectives. The long years of focusing single-mindedly on his mission had changed him, and not for the better.

“Guilty as charged,” he muttered. More quietly, he added, “I’ll do better.”

“Well,” she said after a moment. “Helping me tonight has also gone a long way toward erasing the rest, and I won’t forget that.” The bedsprings creaked. “I’d kill for a hot shower.”

Turning, he found her sitting up, sore arm cradled against her torso. “There’s a bathroom down here. Think you’re steady enough to keep from falling in the shower?”

“Only one way to find out.” She pushed to her feet and her complexion whitened further, but she didn’t sway or stumble. Frustration twisted her features. “I can’t lift my arm over my head.”

“Hold on.” Pulling out his pocketknife, he urged her to turn her back to him. When she complied, he cut the soft material of her T-shirt from neck to waist and sawed through the armhole of her bad arm. After stripping the ruined material off, he tossed it on top of the soiled washcloth. “Can you take off your pants on your own?”

“I think so.” Her head bent as she unfastened her jeans.

As she kicked out of them, he walked to the battered dresser and pulled out one of his old T-shirts. The cotton material had been washed so many times that the material felt butter-soft to his callused fingers. He was big enough that the bottom of the shirt should hit her thighs. He pulled out a pair of gray sweats and athletic socks.