Page 11 of Outlaw Ridge: Griff
Cabinet door, glass, faucet. He didn’t make a sound, he didn’t have to.
When he came back, he handed her the water without a word. She took it, the glass cool against her palm.
“Thanks.” She sipped, the water grounding her more than she expected.
Her gaze drifted to the mantle over the fireplace. It was simple with natural wood, smooth and unvarnished, but the photos arranged along it caught her eye.
She stepped closer.
There were pictures of Griff and other military members in uniform. One in desert camo, another in black tactical gear with a Strike Force patch on the shoulder. In one, he was younger, standing beside three other soldiers, dust and exhaustion on all their faces, but something solid in their eyes.
“Adrenaline junkie much?” she asked, her voice lighter than she felt.
Griff’s mouth twitched. “Some days.”
Her eyes moved to the next photo. A couple, older, standing on the porch of a house with a bright blue door. The man had a big smile and the woman wore a sunhat. They looked like the kind of people who baked bread and waved to their neighbors.
She glanced back at Griff. “Your parents?”
He shook his head. “Foster parents. Roy and Nina Cavanaugh. Took me in when I was thirteen.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass.
“Bobby Ray and you weren’t the only ones with shit parents,” he added.
She met his eyes.
“But they were good,” he said. “The Cavanaughs. Gave me a shot I didn’t think I’d ever get.”
Lily looked at the photo again, then back at Griff. There was something different in his voice when he talked about them. Steady, but with a thread of something almost like warmth.
The silence settled around them, not heavy, just still. Lily stood there, water in hand, eyes still on the photo of Griff’s foster parents, the flicker of firelight memory dancing behind her eyes.
And then it hit.
The weight of everything. The house. The heat. The flames. The photograph of Hannah. The threat. The loss.
It came crashing down like a wave, fast and breath-stealing.
She let out a low, raw sound, a groan pulled from someplace deep, and sat down hard on the edge of the couch, like her legs had finally remembered to give out. She pressed her elbows into her knees, the glass still clutched in one hand, her head bowed.
Griff didn’t hover. He didn’t fill the silence or offer empty words. He just sat beside her and gave her a moment to breathe. Or try to.
She drew in a shaky breath, then another. The sting in her throat wasn’t from smoke anymore.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low but direct.
“Who would start that fire?” he asked. “Who would slash your tires? Threaten your life? All to get you to stop working on Bobby Ray’s case.”
Lily didn’t answer right away. She stared at the floor, jaw tight. There was a list forming in her head. Names. Faces. Motives that hadn’t meant much hours ago but felt sharper now.
Who hated that case enough to burn her world down?
“I don’t know yet,” she said quietly.
Lily rubbed a hand across her forehead, pressing her palm against her temple like she could squeeze the answers out.
“Possibly Everett Langston,” she offered up several moments later. “Maybe even his wife, Catherine. If the rumorsabout him and Hannah were true, and I manage to prove something, it could ruin their whole empire. But…” she exhaled slowly, “I just can’t see either of them personally slashing tires or setting fire to my house. That’s messy. Risky. Not their style.”
