Page 32 of Flint’s Strike

She won’t call. I know it as sure as I know my own name. Because I know her. And I know what it’s like to carry the world on your shoulders all alone.

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The second fire was clean. Naphthalene tied Cedar Park to Round Rock. I knew any halfway competent investigator would make the connection.

I got what I wanted, or the start of it, anyway. I remember thinking I should be relieved.

I wasn’t. The feeling was closer to dread. Relief would have meant it was over. It wasn’t. It was about to spin out of control.

Worse, I made my problem someone else’s without their knowledge or consent.

I told myself there was no other way. That if I ever saw a path out of this, I’d take it. But does that make me someone who finally did the right thing? Or just a coward?

Chapter Twelve

Parker

By the time I make it into the office, it’s after ten.

I stared at the ceiling for half the night, replaying the last few minutes Eliot spent in my apartment over and over again. The lightness in his voice when he talked about his time in El Paso. His love of my mom’s cooking. And the warmth of his lips against my forehead.

As if the exhaustion and mental overload weren’t enough, getting out of bed was…unpleasant. All the bruises I ignored last night—a feat made much easier by the shot of pain meds the Urgent Care doc gave me—screamed at me the second I sat up.

There ain’t enough coffee in the world to fix me after all that. But I’m here. Upright. Limping more than I want, less than I need.

As I cross the bullpen, heads snap up, then right back down. Guess no one wants to acknowledge the dark circles under my eyes or the way my braid isn’t quite straight. I’m right there with them.

The safety of my desk is in sight when AJ’s door opens. “Parker.” If his tone wasn’t enough to warn me what sort of mood he’s in, the sharp jerk of his head would be. “My office. Now.”

Ignoring him for exactly two-point-three seconds, I set my bag on my chair, then follow.

The door clicks shut. Lowering myself into one of his guest chairs, I grit my teeth when the denim pulls at the bandage on my thigh. Maybe he won’t notice.

He doesn’t sit behind his desk, but takes the chair next to me. Shit.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

His eyebrows lift. “You want to try that again? Family don’t lie to one another.”

I take a long, slow breath. “Sore.”

“That’s closer.” As if we’ve ticked the first box on his Parker Injury Checklist, he gives me a small nod. “What did Urgent Care tell you?”

“Keep the stitches—five of them—clean. Ibuprofen for the bruises. Take it easy for a few days.”

“And?” He sits back, arms crossed, waiting.

I fight the urge to squirm under his stare. “There may have been a pamphlet.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “A pamphlet? Did you read it?”

“I skimmed it.” The words sound small, and that riles my anger. Not at him, but at myself. My filter shatters into dust, and suddenly, I feel like I’m sixteen again, caught out after curfew. “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of this.”

“You don’t know why I’m making a big deal out of this? Really? Not a goddamn clue?”

Shit.