Darynda jones charlie davidson 01 first grave on the right

sliced, then dissolved into nothing before my eyes with a growl. My lashes fluttered; then Garrett was over me, speaking loudly, asking me questions I couldn’t comprehend. Reyes had left palpable traces of himself. His desperation settled in every molecule in my body and began flowing through my veins. I could smell him and taste him, and I craved him now more than ever.

“This isn’t the first time this has happened, you know.”

I glanced up at Dad. Earlier, I’d begged him not to call my stepmom. He acquiesced reluctantly, swearing he’d have hell to pay when he got home.

Somehow I doubted it.

“In the apartment building where you live now,” he said, standing beside me, “this exact same thing happened. You were little.”

Dad was fishing for information. He’d long suspected something had happened to me that night. He was lead detective on the case of the paroled child molester’s bizarre attack. After more than twenty years, he was putting it all together. He was right. This wasn’t the first time, or the second. It would seem Reyes Farrow had been my guardian angel for quite some time.

Unable to piece together the whys and wherefores, I decided not to think about it and focused on two things that were not Reyes related: drinking my hot chocolate and steadying my shaking hands.

“A man’s spinal cord was severed in two with absolutely no external injury to the surrounding area. No extraneous bruising. No trauma whatsoever. And you were there both times.”

He was fishing again, waiting for me to give up what I knew, what he suspected. I guess I’d changed that day, become a little withdrawn, even for a four-year-old. But why should I tell him now? It would only cause him pain. He didn’t need to know every detail of my life. And there were some things that, even at twenty-seven, were impossible to tell your father. I don’t think I could have gotten the words out if I’d tried.

I placed a hand in his and squeezed. “I wasn’t there, Dad. Not that day,” I said, lying through my teeth.

He turned away from me and closed his eyes. He wanted to know, but like I’d told Cookie, it wasn’t always better knowing.

“That was the same guy from the other night? The one who hit you?” Uncle Bob asked.

After lowering my cup, I answered, “Yes. He was trying to pick me up, I said no, he got hostile, and the rest is history.” I wasn’t about to tell them the truth. Doing so would risk Rosie’s freedom.

“I say we all go to the station and talk about this,” Uncle Bob said.

Dad flashed him a warning glare, and my muscles tensed. When those two fought, it wasn’t pretty. A little humorous, perhaps, but I doubted anyone was in the