He looks at Amelia. “You need it open, holler. Don’t break the glass unless somebody breaks through the door first.”
Amelia’s eyes widen a little. “That’s comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
“Clearly.”
His mouth twitches.
She almost smiles again.
August stirs on the bed. “Mama.”
Amelia turns instantly. “I’m here.”
“Door?”
Her face folds in a way that hurts. “I’m going to lock it, baby.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He settles.
Derby’s eyes go flat and mean, not at August, not at Amelia, but at whatever taught a child to ask that question.
I know then.
Whatever Derby says, whatever jokes he makes, whatever distance he tries to keep, this is the first hook in him. Not Amelia’s body. Not her mouth. Not the ridiculous underwear that brought her into his road.
That child asking for a locked door.
Derby looks at me once, and for the first time tonight, he ain’t hiding all of it.
He knows what I know.
This ain’t gonna leave him alone.
“I’ll be in the hall,” he says.
Amelia straightens. “You don’t have to stand guard.”
“I do if Legend says I do.”
Her shoulders tense.
He catches it quicker this time. Good. The man can learn when the lesson bites.
“What I mean is,” he says slowly, like politeness is a foreign language he learned from a criminal pamphlet, “nobody gets up these stairs without going through me. Door stays locked. I don’t come in. I don’t listen. I don’t bother you. I sit my ass down the hall and look mean.”
August opens one eye. “You are mean.”
Derby looks offended. “You don’t know me.”
“You look mean.”
“I look handsome.”