The gun filling the wide pocket of her cargo pants—its weight a frightening, all-too-real reminder that she wasn’t the same person—had a lot to do with it. The gun was solid, a reassuring presence against her thigh. Strange. She had never imagined bringing a gun into her father’s house. Hell, she had never imagined buying a gun, but that had been the outcome of her last run-in with Gideon March.

Next time she saw Gideon March, she would be ready.

Only Gideon had been surprisingly absent the last few days. Even so, she remained vigilant, carrying her gun on her at all times. Her gut told her this wasn’t over. He would be back. Like a tiger, he would pounce. Only Claire wasn’t a mouse. Not anymore. She would be ready. She would make certain he never made good on any of his threats.

She watched her father’s unfriendly face as he chewed. The sight reminded her of a cow working a cud between its teeth.

“Gravy?” Before she could protest, her mother leaned over her shoulder and covered her plate with the thick brown sauce.

“Sure,” Claire murmured, watching the congealed grease slither a muddy river over her meat and potatoes. She quickly tried to save her green beans and corn from contamination by scraping them out of range with her fork.

Ladle in hand, her mother slanted her head to get a better view of Claire’s eyes. “Very… interesting, but—” She paused, wrinkling her nose. “Couldn’t you have chosen a different shade? Silver is so… so—”

“Weird,” her father readily supplied, his voice hard.

Claire sighed, wishing the ophthalmologist had been more helpful. His diagnosis that her eyes were exceptionally healthy had failed to comfort her. He didn’t seem to understand that they weren’t her eyes.

Her mother’s slight form flitted around the table like a bird, refilling bowls of steaming vegetables and her father’s sweet tea, having yet to take her own seat or eat a single bite of the food she had slaved over all day.

“Glad you could take time out of your busy schedule to have dinner with us,” her father grumbled as he swirled the meat on his fork into his mashed potatoes and gravy. He was a brawny man, not particularly tall, with a square frame, square face, and large, square hands. A dying breed—he earned his living by the sweat of his brow working oil rigs in the Gulf. The best thing about his job was that he was gone weeks, sometimes months, at a time. The worst thing? He always came home.