She stops short and finally looks at me. I don’t think she’s feigning the shock in her eyes. “Why would I be tired of you? Of either of you?”

Whatever is going on, at least it’s not that.

I can’t breathe a sigh of relief, though, because we haven’t solved anything. “How would I know? You’re not talking to me.”

“Leave it alone.”

A laugh slips free, bitter and heavy. “You know better by now, don’t you?” I should try a softer tactic, shouldn’t back her into a corner, but there’s something frantic beating in my chest, a desperation to fix this so I don’t lose her. “If it’s not about me, and it’s not about Broderick, then what?”

“Back off, Monroe.”

“It’s not Iris,” I muse. I saw her and Shiloh joking just yesterday. Their friendship isn’t experiencing any strife. “It’s not Cohen or Maddox, either.” I refuse to think too hard about either of them. Winry claims she’s content enough, and even though the older sister in me wants to wade in and get some fucking answers, I am trying to respect the fact that Winry is an adult and not in any active danger, so she can handle the situation herself.

“Monroe.” Something creeps into Shiloh’s voice, something almost like begging. “Please leave it alone.”

There’s only one subject this woman avoids on that level. The pieces click together in my head, but the picture still isn’t clear. “This is about your past. About your parents.”

She jerks like I’ve struck her. “Goddamn it. You’re like a fucking terrier with a rat.”

The reaction says it all, but I still don’t understand. “Has Broderick been pushing you about it when I wasn’t around?”

“No.”

Well, I know I haven’t. As much as I haven’t given up my desire to rain fiery fury down on her parents if they’re still alive, I’m trying to show some restraint and not push her. A novel concept for me, but I’m fucking trying.

I narrow my eyes. “Did something happen? Have your parents tried to contact you or something?” I don’t see how, but I’ve only known Shiloh a little over a month. It’s not like she’s shared every bit of herself with me; I never expected her to. If she’s maintained contact with her parents, it’s not like she’d shout it from the rooftop, especially considering how verbal I’ve been about wanting them six feet in the ground.

“My parents are dead.”

I blink. “Recently?”

“No.” Shiloh steps into the shower and ducks her head beneath the spray. She washes systematically while I consider everything she has and hasn’t said.

It doesn’t make sense.

I’m missing something, something important.