Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake)(54)

Connor’s still watching the open window. He says, “You shouldn’t go in there. What if it’s one of those Belldenes, not Vee?”

He’s got a point, but I’m pretty certain that the Belldenes would have set off the alarm. They’re not subtle; they’d just put a boot through our front door, trash the place, and be gone before anyone arrived. And how would they even know the window was off the system?

Still, he’s got a point. It isn’t as if we don’t have multiple threats coming our way. So I tell them to stay in the car. Lanny grips her cell phone in white-knuckled hands; she’ll call for help if it comes to that. I can count on her for that much, at least.

I walk up to Lanny’s window and part the curtains to look inside.

Vee Crockett is sitting on the edge of the bed staring at me, gripping a bat she’s grabbed up off the floor. She’s panicked and ready to swing. In Wolfhunter, she alternated between feral and traumatized. I can’t say this is miles better. “Easy, Vee. It’s just me. Sam Cade. Remember? I live here.”

It takes her a second, but the bat gets lowered. She still hangs on to it. “Oh. You’re back,” she says. “I was asleep.” She looks it. Her heavy makeup is smeared, her hair’s a mess, and she seems completely hungover.

“I’m coming in the front door,” I tell her. “Stay there. Don’t run; you’re not in trouble.”

She doesn’t believe that; I can see it. I shut the window in case that will delay her a couple of seconds, go to the front door, unlock it, and type in the code as I step in. Then I move back to the window, where Vee has thrown out a dirty blue duffel bag and has one leg out to follow it. “Please don’t,” I tell her again. “We’re not your problem. Come in, take a shower, rest. It’s okay.”

She’s wary, but she’s also bone tired, I can see it. And scared. “Is Lanny here?”

“Yeah.” I turn and gesture for the kids to come out of the SUV. They do, and both join me at the window.

“Hey, Vee,” Connor says. “You look like hell.”

“Nobody asked you,” she snaps back, but she’s looking at Lanny. And Lanny’s looking at her. And I know that expression. I get it myself from time to time when I see Gwen.

Man, I really don’t need these two to be in love.

“Inside,” I tell everybody. “We’ll get the bags later.” I head to Lanny’s window and pick up Vee’s duffel bag from the ground. “Except this one. This one goes into the living room with me.” Because I know she’s not going to abandon it. If she would have, she’d have run and left it behind when I gave her the shot.

“Hey!” Vee protests, and makes a grab for the bag. I step back out of reach. She’s still half out the window, glaring.

“Come on. I’ll make coffee.”

I don’t know if it’s the promise of coffee or me hijacking her bag, but when I look back, she’s ducked back inside Lanny’s room and slammed the window. I’ve earned a few minutes of her time, at least. I’m sure that isn’t how Gwen would have done it, but I feel pretty sad for the kid. She’s had a shit life, and it looks like it hasn’t gotten much better since we left her in Wolfhunter.

We get in. Coffee gets made. Lanny and Vee perch together on the sofa; I say perch because Vee looks like she’s ready to launch herself up to fight or run at any second. I recognize that bone-deep wariness. I see it in Gwen from time to time, and I know where it comes from.

I keep it light and calm and easy. I make the coffee the way they ask for it—not for Connor; he gets hot cocoa—and make an offer of lunch once the coffee’s down. Vee looks less likely to bite and flee, and at the prospect of a home-cooked meal she has a moment of real longing. “Spaghetti’s easy,” I tell them. “Fifteen minutes.” That’s cutting corners, but I don’t feel like this is a situation where attention to the culinary details is going to be useful. Lanny’s gaze begs her to say yes, and Vee finally nods. Stiffly, like her neck’s a steel rod.

I still don’t talk about anything but the drive back until we’re around the table, and Vee’s fully invested in her spaghetti and meatballs. Then I say, “Okay. So. Vee, you bolted from the foster home. Right? Easy, I’m not judging you. I just need to know facts.”

She’s not running from her food. She’s got her hand curled protectively around the bowl. But her eyes warn me not to push.

Too bad.

“Yeah,” she finally says. “I ran. So?”

“You got a good reason?”

“They were assholes.”

“What made them assholes?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I was better off on my own.”

I don’t debate that. I don’t know the full story, and I don’t want to quiz her about potential abuse. That’s for the cops to sort out. It’s important I don’t doubt her, or alienate her; she’ll be off like a shot if I do. Probably taking the bowl with her.

“You got a place to stay?” I ask her. I know she doesn’t; if she did, she wouldn’t have been sneaking into our house.

“Little place in the woods,” she says. “More of a lean-to. It ain’t a palace.”

“Doesn’t sound very safe,” I say. “You want to stay here? With us?”