Sara huffed, unwilling to back away from her point. “It says something about Dan’s honor,” she insisted.

“It might not even be true, Sara. Maybe it’s speculation on Melba’s part—have you ever considered that? And even if it is true, even if it’s gospel, it doesn’t mean Dan can’t protect a couple of kids from a piece of shit like Freddie Lansing.”

“Okay,” Sara said, drawing out the word. She still looked unconvinced.

“Listen, for all I know, Dan isn’t available—he might have previous commitments. But it’s worth it to ask him, don’t you think?”

“He’ll be expensive,” Sara mused.

“Yeah,” Eli said, with a semblance of a grin. “My guess is, he’s very expensive. But with some help from your alter ego, Luke Cantrell, not to mention the money you inherited from our grandparents, I’m pretty sure you can afford Dan’s going price, whatever it is.”

“Of course I wouldn’t cheap out on something like this,” Sara snapped. “We’re talking about my children here!”

“I didn’t think you would,” Eli told her gently. “I’m texting you Dan’s number right now. Call him in the morning.”

Sara braced her elbows on the tabletop and buried her face in her hands. “My God, Eli, I am so scared.”

“There’s a place out beyond scared,” Eli reminded her. “I’ll meet you there.”

This paraphrasing of one of Rumi’s poems was a sort of code between them. One of them, most likely Sara, had come across the verse and begun amending it to fit whatever challenge they happened to be facing at the time.

As kids, they’d used it often.

There’s a place beyond heartbreak...grief...disappointment. I’ll meet you there.

Sara lowered her hands, lifted her chin. Her steel-gray eyes were brimming with tears she was again too proud to shed.

“Right,” she said. “I’ll see you in the land of kick-ass and take names, little brother. Don’t be late.”

Eli stood, then leaned down to kiss his sister on the forehead. “Oh, I’ll show up, all right. You can count on that.”

He carried his cup to the sink, set it down.

Sara rose from her chair, too. She crossed the room, pushed aside a picture on the wall and began punching in numbers on the door of the little safe behind it.

“I can spend the night, if you want me to,” he offered.

Sara opened the safe’s door and took out a Glock with what appeared to be a gold-plated handle.

“We’ll be fine,” she replied, expertly checking the magazine for ammunition. “For tonight, anyhow, Old Bessie and I will manage just fine.”

“Good God,” Eli growled, startled. “Put that thing away.”

Sara laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in the sound. “Not a chance. I’m legal, Sheriff—permit to carry, concealed or otherwise.”