Page 70 of The Wild Card

“Good.” He gestures to the recliner next to his. “Stars are down by two. Defense is a mess.”

And just like that, I’m watching hockey with Emmie’s dad while she hovers in the doorway, looking pleased and nervous in equal measure.

“Go help your mother,” Robert says without looking away from the screen. “We’re fine.”

Emmie hesitates.

“Go on, sweetheart. I’m not going to bite him.”

She catches my eye, silently asking if I’m okay. I nod, and she disappears toward the kitchen.

For a few minutes, we just watch the game. I’m hyperaware of everything—the worn fabric of the recliner, the family photos in my peripheral vision, the normalcy of it all. Sitting in a living room. Watching TV. With someone’s father.

I’ve never done this before—any of it. It’s surreal—the kind of thing you see in movies and chuckle about. But there’s no chuckling now, not when it’s real life.

“So.” Robert mutes a commercial. “Emmie says you were military before the Bureau.”

“Army. Six years.”

“See any action?”

“Some.”

He nods slowly, not pushing, which I appreciate. “My brother was Army. Two tours in Iraq. Never talked about it much either.” He unmutes the TV and adds, almost as an afterthought, “You seem solid, Crew. I can tell these things.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I just nod.

Then someone in the doorway catches my eye, and Gavin Marshall walks in.

I met him briefly when Emmie moved in—tall, built like a linebacker, with the same protective energy as a junkyard dog. He spots me in his dad’s recliner, and his expression flattens.

“Jensen.”

“Marshall.”

“Gavin, be nice,” Robert says.

“I’m always nice.” He drops onto the couch, not taking his eyes off me. “So. Still living with my sister.”

“Still.”

“How’s that going?”

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Gavin.” Robert’s voice carries a warning.

Gavin holds up his hands. “I’m just asking questions. Getting to know the guy who’s sleeping down the hall from my baby sister.”

“Different rooms,” I say evenly.

“Uh-huh.”

The tension is thick enough to cut, but I don’t look away. I’ve stared down men with weapons. Emmie’s brother doesn’t scare me.

Okay, he doesn’t scare me much.