Burke came back a short while later. He knocked on the door, soft, and she brought the shotgun with her to the door and waited until she heard him say “pineapple” before she let him in. He was carrying a plastic bag, looked like from the gas station.

The rain outside had stopped, but the parking lot was wet, and Burke’s hair was damp where it wasn’t matted with blood. He’d had his ass kicked a couple of times, by the look of his face, and his hands were scratched up and cut. There was a decent slice through his jeans and the calf of his left leg, too—from Bryce Whitmer’s razor wire, she surmised.

“You probably need a tetanus shot, at the absolute least,” she said, watching as he tried and failed to slip out of his oilskin slicker without wincing.

“No time for that,” Burke replied. He dumped out the plastic bag: energy bars and some bottles of water, chocolate bars and a sad-looking banana. A Slim Jim, some rubbing alcohol, and a box of Band-Aids. “We can’t hang around here for long.”

“At least let me see to those cuts on your hands. There’s no telling what kind of nastiness lives on that Whitmer farm.”

“You mean besides Whitmer himself?” Burke picked up the Slim Jim, tossed it to her. “For Lucy. She isn’t looking like she’s been eating too good as of late.”

Jess smiled despite herself. “Oh, she’s going to love you forever.” She opened the package, peeled back the plastic. Lucy was already on her feet on the bed, tail going ballistic and nose insinuating itself toward the source of the sound, the smell of the pepperoni.

“Yeah, you big goof, this is for you,” Jess said, petting her head. “Try and at least have the decency to chew.”

But Lucy fairly inhaled the pepperoni stick, no thought to savoring the meal. She polished it off and licked her lips and looked from Jess to Burke and back again, like she was ready for round two.

Jess and Burke met eyes, and Burke laughed and Jess did too. “She always was kind of a pig,” he said.

He pulled off his woolen Stanfield’s sweater and draped it over a chair, stood by the table in his ripped jeans and a T-shirt. He must have taken care of his body in prison, fifteen years with nothing to do but lift weights; his arms were thick and powerful looking, his shoulders broad. Jess found herself trying not to look too long.

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever given any thought to relocation,” he said. Cleared his throat. “I mean, moving out of that little town, starting somewhere new.”

“What, and let those boys run me out of my home?” It came out angrier than she’d wanted, but to hell with it.