With my hands full and the toast between my teeth, I work the back door with elbows and boots and step onto the porch.
The guitar falls quiet, and she peers at me from beneath her lashes. “Where did Dad find that attorney, anyway? He isn’t from around here.”
Evidently, I walked in on a conversation she’s been having in her head. I sit on the step above her.
“Shouldn’t Lorne be out on bail?” She grabs the toast from my mouth and waves it around. “I haven’t heard shit about a plea deal, and my dad won’t even look at me, let alone talk to me about the trial. Swear to God, Jake, every minute Lorne spends behind bars breaks me a little more.”
Conor Cassidy doesn’t break, but I feel her frustration and worry. All this has been eating at me, too.
I set her breakfast at her feet and position her to sit between my legs, one step down and facing the open grassland. Jarret’s been out there before dawn every day, covering the workload for Lorne, Conor, and me. He volunteered for the extra shifts to keep his mind off things, but I intend to pull my weight today. After I take care of Conor.
“Deep breaths. In and out.” I lean over her from behind and rub the muscles above her breasts, working upward to massage her shoulders and the curve of her neck.
She sleeps in my t-shirts and still wears one now. It swallows her tiny frame like a potato sack, brushing her knees and hanging off one shoulder. Seeing her in my clothes fills me with possessiveness. Soothing her with my hands injects shots of rightness through my blood.
“That’s so good.” Her head falls back, and she drapes her arms over my knees, the toast forgotten in her grip.
I stop.
She twists her neck to squint at me. “Why did you—?
“Eat.”
Her eyes slide to the toast, squinting harder. I know her stomach’s too twisted up to acknowledge hunger. I expect her to refuse. So when she takes a hearty bite, I mentally fist pump.
Pushing my luck, I nudge the plate of eggs with my boot. “All of it.”
“Fine.”
She eats, and I massage. She hums, and I idly stroke her hair. Together, we watch the sun climb and think about Lorne.
Curling up in the V of my legs, she hooks her arms around my thigh. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“I did some research online.”
“I did, too.” Her nails bite into my denim-clad leg. “It’s all…too much to take in. Maybe I just can’t focus right now. What did you find?”
I read about homicide cases similar to Lorne’s, and the verdicts make my chest so tight I can’t breathe. “It’s too early to—”
“I need honesty. Please. Don’t sugarcoat it.”
With my arms bracketing her from behind, I lean closer and hover my mouth over her bare shoulder. She smells so sweet I ache to taste her skin.
Focus, Jake.
I clear my throat. “He shot two men. Since the first one was in self-defense, it’s negligible. The prosecutor will go after the biggest charge. With Wyatt, Lorne acted in the heat of passion. It wasn’t premeditated or coldblooded. If they see it that way, he’s looking at manslaughter.” I rub the sudden stiffness in her arms. “It’s better than first-degree murder. Minimum sentence for manslaughter is ten years.”
Her chin trembles, and the auburn crescents of her lashes spread over her cheekbones, hiding the torment in her eyes.
I decide not to mention the 85 Percent Rule, which would require Lorne to serve at least 8.5 years before he can even be considered for parole.
That’s the best-case scenario. Since he used a deadly weapon, he could face life in prison. How much has he admitted to the detectives? Do they know he rode out to the pasture with the intent to kill a man?
Levi Tibbs. I now have the name of the motherfucker we let live.
I flex the hand wrapped in gauze, anticipating the eventual scar. All four of us will carry that scar and never forget the blood oath we made. In the meantime, I will plan and wait with godlike patience.
Levi Tibbs sits behind bars on charges of rape and aggravated assault. Turns out, he and his dead accomplice came from Oregon, with mile-long criminal records and outstanding warrants. Apparently, they were on the run when they spotted Conor in town earlier that day and followed her home.
It sickens me that she blames herself. As if she deliberately attracted those men and caused Lorne’s arrest. We argued about this yesterday, and I vehemently reminded her that she saved my ass. If she hadn’t broken through my fog of rage that night, I’d be in jail right now, facing murder charges.
I brush my nose along the soft skin on her shoulder. “Can I get you anything? More food? A book from your room? Sunblock?”