Page 51 of Bitter Falls

I keep it light and calm and easy. I make the coffee the way they ask for it—not for Connor; he gets hot cocoa—and make an offer of lunch once the coffee’s down. Vee looks less likely to bite and flee, and at the prospect of a home-cooked meal she has a moment of real longing. “Spaghetti’s easy,” I tell them. “Fifteen minutes.” That’s cutting corners, but I don’t feel like this is a situation where attention to the culinary details is going to be useful. Lanny’s gaze begs her to say yes, and Vee finally nods. Stiffly, like her neck’s a steel rod.

I still don’t talk about anything but the drive back until we’re around the table, and Vee’s fully invested in her spaghetti and meatballs. Then I say, “Okay. So. Vee, you bolted from the foster home. Right? Easy, I’m not judging you. I just need to know facts.”

She’s not running from her food. She’s got her hand curled protectively around the bowl. But her eyes warn me not to push.

Too bad.

“Yeah,” she finally says. “I ran. So?”

“You got a good reason?”

“They were assholes.”

“What made them assholes?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I was better off on my own.”

I don’t debate that. I don’t know the full story, and I don’t want to quiz her about potential abuse. That’s for the cops to sort out. It’s important I don’t doubt her, or alienate her; she’ll be off like a shot if I do. Probably taking the bowl with her.

“You got a place to stay?” I ask her. I know she doesn’t; if she did, she wouldn’t have been sneaking into our house.

“Little place in the woods,” she says. “More of a lean-to. It ain’t a palace.”

“Doesn’t sound very safe,” I say. “You want to stay here? With us?”

Her eyes widen. She looks around, as if she can’t believe anybody shares in such luxury. I just see a regular middle-class house with a fairly comfortable couch and a good on-sale TV. But mileage varies. “Here?” she says. “Where?”

“My room,” Lanny says, at the same time that I say, “The couch folds out,” and that’s awkward. But I’m damn sure not putting a lovestruck kid in bed with Vee Crockett and trusting nothing’s going to happen. I’m pretty sure Gwen would say the same. Which reminds me, again, how much I miss Gwen’s presence in this conversation. I’d expected J. B. to call by now, but when I glance at my phone, there’s nothing yet.

“She’s staying with me. In my room,” Lanny declares, as if she’s the decision-maker here.

“Nope,” I say, and eat some more spaghetti. I’m not going to argue about it, and she knows that. She glares. “The couch bed is comfortable. I should know, I slept there for a couple of months.” Gwen and I had things to work out after she discovered how involved I was with the Lost Angels. That wasn’t fun, but I’m not lying about the comfortable bed.

“It’s fine,” Vee says to Lanny. “Not that I don’t likeyourbed.” She winks, and I open my mouth to ask how many timesthat’shappened, but then I think better of it. Lanny’s face has blotched scarlet, and she looks deeply shocked that Vee’s said that in front of me.

“Vee,” I say instead of running after that bait, “are we going to be getting a knock on the door from the police, looking for you? Would anything you’re running from cause that? I don’t mean just bouncing from the foster home—I grew up in the system, and I bounced from a few too. I mean actual crimes they can tie back to you.”

She stops eating. She looks at me, and I remember that flat, simmering resentment in her eyes. It hasn’t changed since Wolfhunter. “I ain’t killed nobody recently,” she says. “If that’s what you’re asking.” It’s sarcastic. Vee Crockett was accused of her mother’s murder. As far as I know, she’s never actually killed anyone.

Doesn’t make me trust her.

“I was clear,” I say. “Straight answer, Vee. If you want to stay.”

She’s aware that I’m serious. I see her calculating. She’s a smart kid—not book-smart, but she reads people well. It’s something kids who live on the edges develop early. Some turn it into pure con artistry. Some use it defensively, like she does. She’ll try to game me if she thinks that will work.

She must see it won’t, because she says, “I done what I had to do. Some of it might not be strictly legal, I guess.”

“Bad enough to have warrants out?”

She just shakes her head on that one. I don’t think she’s lying. “Okay. You can stay until Gwen gets back. Then we have a deeper conversation. Finish lunch. You three get to Roshambo for who does dishes.” I eat the rest of my spaghetti and check my phone. No calls from Gwen. I text her one-handed.Funny story, we have a new houseguest.If anything will make her get back to me, I figure that will do it.

I watch the screen.

No answer.

I start feeling that tension creep up my spine, knotting muscles as it goes. The kids are talking. I’m not listening. My focus is all on that screen.

Nothing.

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