Page 103 of Danger

Before she can knock, I yank the door open.

She’s standing there, hair done, makeup done, arms crossed like she knows what I’m about to say.

“What do you want, Rylee?” I don’t bother to keep the edge out of my voice.

She lets out a long breath. “I need to talk to you.”

I go to shut the door, but she jams her heel in the gap. “Don’t be an asshole, Dutton. Just—just listen, okay? It’s about Fisher.”

There’s nothing in the world she could have said to make me listen, except that.

“What about him?”

“Can I come inside?” she asks, looking over my shoulder.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “And he’s not here.”

“Please. I won’t be long. I know you don’t want me to keep coming back here. Just talk to me.”

I narrow my eyes, then give in. Might as well get this shit over with.

I hold the door open, keeping her in my line of sight. She stops in the middle of the living room. Doesn’t say a word. Her gaze drifts from the couches to the TV screen, then back again, like she’s seeing ghosts. Like she didn’t expect the past to still be standing here.

She hasn’t been here since before she left.

“Talk,” I say, leaning against the entryway.

She looks around, curious. “Where are our pictures?”

“Burned them.”

She lets out a humorless laugh then her gaze drifts to the bar area. She nods toward it. “Can I have a drink?”

“No.”

She crosses her arms. “I’m trying here. Can you not make this harder than it already is?”

I sigh, walk to the bar, and grab two glasses. I pour a little in each. Hand one over. She takes it like she needs it to keep going.

She sips, winces at the burn. “Still drink this stuff, huh?”

“It’s in my blood,” I say, watching her over the rim of my glass.

She sinks onto the couch, shoulders slumping, staring into her lap.

“I saw him, you know. Fisher. In town with PJ.”

I say nothing.

She keeps talking. “It was—God, Dutton, it was what I was most afraid of. I think I thought if I just didn’t see him, that it wouldn’t be real. My brain hid it, like trauma. But he’s beautiful. He’s perfect. You did a good job.”

I nod, still say nothing.

She looks up, mascara already smudged. “I don’t know what to do. I can’t take anything back, but I think—I think I want to know him. I don’t know if I was ever meant to be a mom, but maybe I should try to know him.”

I set my drink down. “You can’t.”

Her lips part. “What?”