He lowered himself to the edge of the bed with Tracey on his lap and brushed her hair away from her face. “Listen. Anyone would have hesitated.” He wiped her tears with the pad of his thumb. “They’re done, Tracey. They’re going to jail, and I’ll get that third guy. But right now you need to rest.” He laid her on the bed.

“Ow.” She sat up. “My back and shoulder are too sore.”

He shifted on the bed, resting his back against the headboard, and motioned for her to come to him. She gave him a wary look. He cursed under his breath. “Do you really think I’m going to try something? Especially after all you’ve been through? I’m just going to hold you so you can sleep without pain.”

Those big hazel eyes turned apologetic as she moved beside him. Her left side had taken most of the trauma, so he tucked her right side against him. She was so petite, he had to slide lower to lessen the angle of his body so she could drape herself over him comfortably without putting pressure on her back or shoulder. His hand settled on her hip. “Does that hurt?”

She shook her head against his chest.

He rested his head back, taking in the white walls of her bedroom and the cheap dresser and nightstand that looked secondhand. The bed was definitely a double. He barely fit on it. A blue blanket was folded at the bottom of the bed on top of a plain white bedspread. There was one framed photograph on the dresser of Tracey, all knobby knees and pointy elbows, probably twelve or thirteen years old, taken with a petite dark-haired woman who could only be her mother. They shared the same almond-shaped eyes, perky nose, and pointy chin that brought the words elfin magic to mind. Diesel’s mother’s voice whispered through his head. We need a little elfin magic, Dezzie. What d’ya say? Go get our paints. He was just a boy in that memory, seven or eight maybe, and he remembered running out to the shed to fetch the bucketful of little paint cans and paintbrushes so they could add to the hobbit-and-elf-themed walls of the hobbit room they’d started when he was too young to remember.

A stab of longing moved through him, and he shifted his gaze around the room to try to distract himself from the ache tiptoeing in with another memory. This one from when his mother had been too weak to move. He’d carried her to that elfin-magic room, which by then was covered floor to ceiling with elves and hobbits, wizards and forestry.

Where were Tracey’s favorites? Nothing in that room spoke of her uniqueness. She’d lived there a long time, and there wasn’t one picture on the wall or even any of those fancy throw pillows most women liked.