He shouldn’t even consider driving down to Painters Mill in his current state. He’d been drinking, enough so that he shouldn’t be driving. He shouldn’t get anywhere near Kate. But it wasn’t the fear of doing physical violence to her that gave him pause. Tomasetti didn’t like where his head was when it came to her. He didn’t want to care for her. He didn’t want to care about anyone. He was just getting to the point where he could get through the day without thinking about Nancy and the girls. He could go the entire night without thinking about putting a bullet in his head. And now his feelings for Kate were jeopardizing all of it.

For the first time in a long time, Tomasetti’s feelings for someone else were overriding his hatred for himself. But he knew the kinds of terrible things that could happen to the people he cared about. There was no way in hell he ever wanted to go through the horror of losing someone he cared for ever again. It was easier not to give a damn.

Kate hadn’t left him a choice.

“Goddamn you, Kate.”

Yanking open the refrigerator, he pulled out a bottle of water, uncapped it and drank it down without stopping. He wasn’t drunk, but he wasn’t exactly sober. He wasn’t impaired, but that wouldn’t keep him from getting a DUI if some trooper pulled him over, decided to give him a breath test. Tomasetti was over the limit in more ways than one.

Cursing, he snagged another bottle of water from the fridge, grabbed his keys off the counter and headed for the door.

It’s three A.M., and the house is so quiet I can hear the oil sizzling on the lantern wicks. The wind hisses and sighs through the window above the sink. I sit at the kitchen table with two pair of trousers and an open sewing basket in front of me. I’ve made several passes in front of the windows, making myself visible. From all appearances I’m the only family member awake. I’m ready. I’ve been ready for half my life. Or so says Tomasetti.

I’ve tried hard to maintain my edge. But my focus has shifted to him a dozen times in the last few hours. I don’t like the way we left things. I don’t like the things we said to each other. There was too much emotion. Maybe even a little bit of truth. I’m not sure which is worse.

Rising, I carry a pair of trousers through the living room, passing close to the window, and walk into the bathroom. There, I sit on the side of the tub and hit my radio.

“You guys there?”

“If these sons of bitches don’t show tonight, I swear to Christ I’m wearing a gas mask tomorrow,” Skid says.