Chapter 3
Dustin folded his arms. “She trains here sometimes.”
“She told me she hated fighting.”
“She does.”
“Then why was she here?”
Neither man answered.
My anger, which had carried me through the door like a hot current, cooled enough for another instinct to surface.
Pay attention.
People often said more in the seconds when they decided what not to say.
I looked at Eddie.
“My daughter has a concussion and bruised ribs. She says she fell down the stairs.”
Dustin’s face changed.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
“What stairs?” he asked.
I stared at him.
“You tell me.”
“I haven’t seen her since yesterday afternoon.”
“Convenient.”
“It’s true.”
“Dustin,” Eddie warned.
“No. I’m not taking this.” He pointed toward the door. “He walks in here accusing me because Marcy told some story—”
“She didn’t accuse you.”
That stopped him.
“What?”
“She asked me not to come here.”
A strange silence followed.
Dustin’s anger faltered.
For the first time since I had met him, he looked less like a man performing confidence and more like a twenty-seven-year-old who had suddenly realized events were moving without him.
“What exactly did she tell you?” Eddie asked.
“That if she left Dustin, his uncle would hurt our family.”
Dustin closed his eyes.
Not for long.
Just long enough.
I stepped toward him.
“Look at me.”
He did.
“Did you say that?”
His jaw flexed.
“No.”
“You expect me to believe—”
“I told her my uncle was dangerous. I told her she needed to stay away from anything involving him.”
“That isn’t what she said.”
“I know.”
The way he said it made me stop.
Eddie pulled a folding chair away from the wall.
“Tom.”
“I’m not sitting.”
“You should hear him out.”
“I didn’t come for his version.”
“That’s exactly why you should hear it.”
There was an echo of the young Marine I remembered in Eddie’s voice—not obedience, but steadiness under pressure.
May you like
I had spent half my life teaching people that anger narrowed vision.
Now mine had become a tunnel.
