Page 41 of Holding On To Good

And the dark.

Back to her car that was stuck on the side of the road.

Alone.

“Stay,” he murmured when Titus stood and took a step forward.

They weren’t chasing after her. She’d be fine. She was Verity Jennings. Smart, popular and friendly, she knew plenty of people who could get her car back on the road.

I’m hoping you’ll help me without involving anyone else.

That’s what hope got you.

A whole lot of nothing.

For whatever reason, she didn’t want anyone to know she was stuck. Or maybe she didn’t want them to know she’d been on Songbird Lane. Could it be that Little Miss Sunshine was up to no good?

He snorted. Right. Perfect, smart, all-around good girl Verity Jennings doing something wrong.

Never.

She was probably just embarrassed she’d gone off the road. Was worried it’d ruin what had to be a spotless driving record—no traffic stops, speeding tickets, or accidents.

He glanced at Titus. An accident his dog had caused.

An accident that was Reed’s fault for letting Titus run loose.

Guilt—unwanted and annoying as hell—pinched Reed. Hard. He tried to shove it away but it remained, nagging and persistent.

Sort of like Verity with her unyielding pounding on his door and her lecture on what his part in her little drama should be.

He’d offered to call a tow. It wasn’t his fault that hadn’t been enough for her.

She’d wanted him to play hero.

Christ, but did she have the wrong guy.

Titus whined and looked back at Reed then turned to face the driveway again, but Verity was gone, swallowed up by the dark and the rain.

“She’s fine,” he told his dog, but Titus still padded to the edge of the porch, peered toward the road as if trying to make sure of that himself.

Not only did she know plenty of people, but Mount Laurel was safe. Safe enough to walk around, in the dark and the rain, alone.

Safe enough to be stranded, in the dark and the rain, on the side of the road.

Alone.

He raked the fingers of both hands through his damp hair a few times then stopped and tipped his head back. “Shit.”

He yanked the door open and did his own stiff-legged stomp into the trailer.

“Who was at the door?” Pete Walsh asked from his spot on the ratty recliner in the living room. He had a can of beer in one hand, the remaining two cans from the six-pack on the floor next to him, the Pirates game on the TV going into extra innings.

“I told you,” Reed said, heading down the hall toward his room. “No one.”

Verity had wanted him to ask his dad to help her. What a fucked-up mess that would have been. What if Reed hadn’t been home? What if he’d worked later and his father had been the one to answer her knock?

His stomach turned. He blew out a breath. Shook his head to clear it of the image of Pete luring her inside. Of Verity Jennings alone with his old man.

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