The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

Violet laughed. “I am ready to be dumped on. Wait…that came out weird.”

I smiled and then a figure passed by the front of my shop. I could’ve sworn I’d seen the same gray coat, the same hunched shoulders earlier this morning.

“How is everyone?” Violet asked.

“Good. Except Bibi’s getting up there. Her blood pressure isn’t great, and her vision is all but gone. Being away from home to sit at a shop that’s empty half the day feels like I’m failing in all the ways.”

“You’re not failing. You’re taking care of everyone, and you’re doing it beautifully. But wait…business is slow? I thought you said you had a great winter?”

“I did, but it ebbs and flows with the tourists. That’s just the business. I need to keep adjusting, calibrating, and working to keep up. But damn…”

“I know,” she said softly. “But the summers are usually busy, right?”

I smiled. “Thank you for reminding me of the good stuff. It’s easy to forget when I’m missing him so damn much.”

“Do you want to talk about him?”

“There’s nothing to say. He’s on Year Three of a ten-year sentence and still won’t let me see him.” I shrugged, as if the heavy burden pressing down on my heart could be reduced to that casual gesture. “I miss him, Vi. That’s the bottom line. I miss him with every particle of my body. But I’m also so angry at him for shutting me out. In my worst moments, I’m tempted to do what he said—let him go and move on with my life.”

“But…”

“But that’s impossible. And I wish he knew that,” I said, tears pricking my eyes again. “More than anything, I wish he understood what he means to the people who love and need him.”

“I know,” Violet said. “Miller doesn’t talk about it much, but he’s hurting too. Both Ronan and Holden disappeared in their own way, cutting him off.”

“God, I haven’t even asked how Miller is doing,” I said, quickly wiping my eyes. “Better, I’ll bet, now that he has you with him.”

I heard Violet’s smile over her words, happiness infusing her voice. “He’s going to be okay. No more touring until he’s rested and even then, no more arena shows.”

“Good. I—” I stopped as I caught sight of the same figure in gray skulking outside my window, only this time I caught a glimpse of hair too. A furtive glance, then he was hurrying away. “Vi, I’m sorry, I have to call you back.”

The figure was halfway down the sidewalk when I tore out of the shop. “Hey!” I called sharply. “Stop right there!”

The guy jerked to a stop and hunched deeper in his ratty coat. Then, slowly, he turned around and I tensed all over, the air catching in my chest as if I’d been punched in the gut.

Frankie Dowd was almost unrecognizable. Pale, sickly, nearly emaciated, with one eyelid permanently drooping from the beating he took three years ago. He shuffled toward me, limping, as if he couldn’t control his left leg very well.

“Hey, Shiloh,” Frankie said, his hands jammed in the pockets of an old windbreaker that might’ve once been blue and was five sizes too big. His jeans were ripped, and his Converse were filthy, the laces held together with knots.

I glared at him, trying to ignore how my heart sort of ached to see him like this, so wretched and sad. I’d never seen a person completely without hope before, but Frankie was close.

Then I remembered how hopeless and undone I felt the night my shop was vandalized. How Ronan must’ve felt when he had ten years taken from him for something he didn’t do. I hardened my voice.

“What do you want? Why have you been skulking around my store all morning? Casing the joint for your next attack?”

He winced, but truthfully, the guy looked like he couldn’t lift a crowbar now to save his life.

“I need to talk to you.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“But I have something you want to hear.”

His sad, plain tone caught my attention. I crossed my arms. “After all that’s happened, why should I give you the time of day?”

“You shouldn’t,” he said. “I don’t blame you for hating me, but you’re going to want to hear this. Please.”

I crossed my arms tighter. The urge to scream at him, to rage and rail and try to inflict a fraction of the pain on him that I’d endured—that Ronan had endured—in the last three years was fierce but fading, until I just felt sorry for him. And the fact that he was here, talking to me, sparked a little flicker that it wasn’t going to be the same hopeless day as every other day over the last three years.