Page 91 of Captive of Outlaws

It doesn’t make sense, and yet it does.

Finally, long after dusk settles, I make my way downstairs for a glass of water. Someone’s in the kitchen, clattering around—Tuck, I assume—but when I slip in, I see it’s Will at the stove.

“Sorry,” I say, spreading my hands. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Will glances over his shoulder, and smiles when he sees me. “You’re not.” He turns around, holding out a saucepan. “I was making this for you, actually.”

I step closer to him and peer inside. Neon-yellow sauce and a mess of noodles.

“I know Tuck’s the real gourmet,” Will says, wiping one hand on the dishtowel over his shoulder. “But he’s helping Rob revamp some of the security hardware, and I remember you saying...”

“I’m a box mac-and-cheese girl,” I finish for him. The whole day’s mess of emotions drains out of me in a heartbeat, replaced with nothing but gratefulness. To think of Will, Mr. Sophistication himself, boiling macaroni and stirring in powdered orange cheese—God, but the mental image alone is enough to cheer me up.

“You’re just in time,” he goes on. “It’s ready. I...think.”

“Looks great,” I agree. Will nods at the counter.

“Sit.”

I do, and he sets the saucepan back down, opening cabinet after cabinet until I realize he has no idea where the bowls are.

“Second from the left,” I tell him. “Over the coffee maker.”

“Thanks.” He grabs a bowl, scoops in way too much mac and cheese, and hands it to me, along with a fork—he knows where those are, at least. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

I nod and take a forkful. “It’s been...a day.”

“I bet.” Will studies me, and I suddenly feel very awkward, shoveling mac and cheese into my face.

“You know, it’s hard to eat when I’m being supervised,” I mutter. Will straightens up, bowing his head apologetically.

“My bad. I just wanted to make sure it’s...edible?” he says hopefully.

I stifle a laugh. It’s honestly beyond charming how worked up he is over a little mac and cheese.

“Perfect,” I say. “I can taste the artificial flavoring.”

Will nods. “Good. Do you want some...” He opens the fridge. “Sriracha? Chipotle tabasco? Mango chutney—”

“I’m good,” I say, actually laughing this time. “Really, it’s great as is.”

“Okay.” Will leans against the counter, arms folded, and consciously averting his eyes.

I laugh again, and it feels good to laugh. “You don’t have tonotlook at me. Just...relax.”

He works his jaw. “Easier said than done, given the circumstances.”

The dark shadow of what I’ve learned clouds my consciousness again. “Yeah.” I put down my fork, blow out a breath.

We stay like that, silent and not making eye contact, for a few moments.

“How could you be sostupid?” I cry, smacking my palmsagainst the counter hard enough to rattle the fork. “How could you fuckingdothat, Dad?”

My chin’s quivering. I pin my wrists between my knees on the barstool, willing myself not to lose it again. Will looks up, concern etched on his features, and steps briskly to my back.

His hands are warm on my shoulders. I close my eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Maren.” His voice is husky, raw.

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