“Yes,” the woman-child agreed. “And about how she died and none of you came to the funeral because you didn’t know she was dead and all that.”

The gibe registered, as it was meant to.

“So then it was just you and your dad,” J.P. prompted. “Any brothers or sisters?”

“I’m an only child,” came the reply. “No step-siblings or half siblings. And I didn’t have a dad. Just a stepfather, who remarried six months after we buried Mom and wanted me out of the picture ASAP.”

“Grandparents?” Eli suggested hopefully. “Aunts and uncles? Cousins?”

She shook her head and, for a moment, amber fire flashed in her eyes. “Nope. None of the above.”

“Who took care of you?” J.P. asked. “After Reba…died?”

“Mostly,” the girl said, “I took care of myself.” She paused, looked down at Trooper, and an expression of such sorrow crossed her face that Cord’s heart cracked right down the middle. When she raised her head, tears glimmered in her lashes. “They gave away my dog.”

Cord swallowed hard, near tears himself. “Who did?”

He wanted names, addresses. Wanted to track down the heartless assholes and rearrange their faces, feature by feature.

Which was why he didn’t ask for specifics.

The reply was almost flippant. “Who else? The stepfather and his bimbo bride. I freaked out, and guess what? They gave me away, too. Next thing I knew I was in a foster home. And that was only the first.”

J.P. muttered a curse, shoved the splayed fingers of one hand through his dark blond hair and glanced Cord’s way, as did Eli, gauging his reaction. Until he was three years old, when Bill and Mimi Hollister had appeared out of nowhere and rescued him, he’d been in and out of the foster system himself. His father, Bill and Mimi’s son, had died before he was born. He hadn’t seen his mother, Julie, since he was removed from her custody at the age of two and had no actual memories of her.

At the moment, there was no room in his mind—or his heart—for thoughts of those long-ago days. Most of what he knew about his early past he’d learned from Bill and Mimi. What he felt now was fury, and deep empathy for the girl huddled inside his jacket.

Before he or his friends could find words, Reba’s daughter went on.

“Don’t go feeling sorry for me,” she warned. “Bad things happen to everybody.”

Eli sucked in a breath, huffed it out. He was back in cop mode, but he spoke gently. “So you ran away from the latest foster home?” he asked.

“No,” she said, with obvious pride. “I applied for emancipation and I got it.”