Amelia’s shoulders lock. “Do I know you?”
“No, honey. But I know your husband.”
There it is.
The room goes quieter.
Not silent. The Fire Pit knows how to listen under noise.
Ruthanne looks at me briefly, then dismisses me like men with tattoos are furniture she disapproves of. “Jeremy is worried sick.”
Amelia’s face drains.
I keep my hand where she left it. Holding hers. Waiting for her to let go or hold tighter.
She holds tighter.
“Then he should rest,” she says.
Oh, I like that.
Ruthanne blinks once.
The smile returns. “I understand you are upset. Marriage can be difficult. Women carry so much emotion. Sometimes we react before we pray.”
Amelia’s grip is ice cold.
I want to put Ruthanne through a table.
Neutral ground, Derby.
Neutral ground.
Ruthanne steps closer. “A woman should be careful whose protection she accepts. Some men save you because they want to own what another man broke.”
That one hits.
I feel it go through Amelia like a blade.
The whole room seems to hold its breath.
Because it’s a good shot.
Cruel. Clean. Aimed right at the fear Amelia already carries.
My voice drops. “You need to walk away.”
Ruthanne looks at me with fake sadness. “I’m only speaking truth.”
“No,” I say. “You’re speaking for a man who tracks phones and scares children. That makes you either ignorant or useful, and I don’t give a damn which.”
Her smile tightens. “This is why women of faith worry about men like you.”
“I ain’t worried about your faith, Ruthanne. I’m worried you’re about to fall into bad luck wearing church shoes.”
Amelia’s hand squeezes mine.
Not to encourage.