Michael grew tenser with each second that passed. Carefully, he slid his hand along the floor, reaching for the knife he’d hidden under Joshua’s bed. It was a simple steak knife from the silverware drawer in Dani’s kitchen, but it was sharp enough to do some damage. Especially if the man wasn’t expecting it.

After a few more seconds that felt like years, the man sat on the floor just outside the door to Joshua’s room, leaning his back against the doorjamb. His face was visible for a split second as he moved. It was Marcus, the guy who owned the newspaper. The guy who’d gotten Michael a lawyer with a fancy suit who worked for free. The guy who was Coach’s best friend.

According to Greg, Coach and Marcus had served in the war together. The two were shot at by the enemy and Coach took the bullet intended for Marcus.

Michael hoped it was true. He wanted to believe that Coach was a legit hero. He wanted to believe that the two men were best friends—and that they were both good. He let out the breath he’d been holding, hoping Marcus couldn’t hear the frantic beating of his heart.

He watched as Marcus sat patiently, quietly. And then Scarlett came to sit beside him. Marcus put his arm around her shoulders and together they . . .

They guarded them. That was what they were doing. They’re watching over us. Because the man who’d killed Brewer was still out there.

Michael didn’t think anyone was getting by Marcus. Or especially not by his wife, Scarlett. She was a cop. A homicide detective, even. A real badass, again according to Greg, who was a fountain of information.

Slowly, Michael’s heart resumed a normal rhythm. Sliding the knife back into its hiding place, he let himself go back to sleep.

Bridgetown, Ohio
Monday, March 18, 1:20 a.m.

Diesel drew in a slow breath. Slowly, he flattened his hands on the table. “How was Adrian’s death your fault?”

Pain mixed with the anger in Dani’s gut. “He was a big guy. Covered in tats.”

Diesel was quiet for a beat. “Like me.”

She nodded, her lips twisting into a smile that was both rueful and bitter at once. “Apparently I have a type. Big, bad, bald guys with tats. I wanted you from the first moment you walked into my clinic.” When he’d stared at her face, then panicked at her white coat and stumbled backward through the door to the street.

“I looked like a crazy man.”

“No.” She smiled sadly. “You’d bent down to talk to a little boy with such gentleness. I knew you were nice.”

“Too nice for you?” Maybe he was finally getting it.

“Yeah. But you have the whole bad-boy thing going on.” She waved her hand, indicating his body. And tats. And bald head.