Far before I’m ready, the lights of the Dallas suburbs bloom on the horizon.
Check the time: 1:47 a.m.
Check Harper: starting to stir.
Check my hands: still shaking slightly. Tighten grip on the wheel even though my knuckles are aching from gripping it so tightly for so many hours today.
I have to pass through the outskirts of Dallas to get to our northeastern suburb, and the nighttime Dallas skyline lights glitter like a promise.
In the rearview, I catch Z pressing his face to the window, eyes wide. Taking in the buildings, the lights, the sheersizeof everything.
Has he ever been to Dallas? Or any large city? Has he been just as sheltered as Harper? Trapped in Grass Alley, the same way she was, just with different bars on the cage?
Maybe I should try to find some compassion for him, like Harper has.
But then I catch the way he’s looking at her in the rearview mirror—at her sleeping form, curled toward me like even unconscious, she’s seeking me out—and he’s got this expression on his face.
Like she’shis.
The second he saw me, he wanted to fight me for her. Even though he’s scrawnier than me—all wiry muscle and sharp edges where I’m broader, more solid. I have a feeling he’d fight dirty. Go for the eyes or the throat with a hidden blade.
Whatever it took to win.
Harper always talked about her life before me in terms of survival.
I hate to admit, some part of me thought she was being metaphorical.
But after meeting Frank and seeing where she grew up, smelling that ammonia stench from the factory, and watching grown men size up my car like sharks circling prey, I’m beginning to understand.
She was being terribly direct.
I pull into our driveway as quietly as possible and killthe headlights before I turn in—exactly four seconds before the turn. I counted.
Roll slowly up the driveway, trying not to make noise.
Check speedometer: 3 mph. 2 mph. 1 mph.
Check mirrors: no neighbors watching. Good.
Check the house and frown: lights on. Not good.
It’s 2:03 a.m., and I’m desperately hoping Mom and Silas went to bed already, trusting that we’re just late coming back from the lake.
But from the way the front door flies open, light spilling out into the darkness, and Silas stomping out the walkway, that’s a pipe dream.
Shit.
“Harper,” I say gently, reaching over to shake her arm.
She startles awake again, shooting to a sitting position so sharply she almost bangs her head against the passenger window.
“What?” she’s shouting before she’s fully conscious, and I see it—that instinct. That fight-or-flight response that never quite turns off.
“We’re okay. It’s just your dad.” I point at Silas, who’s crossing the cobbled walkway in his pajama pants and undershirt, face thunderous in the porch light.
“Shit,” Harper says, voice scratchy with sleep. “What time is it?”
“Two in the morning.”