“I doubt they’ll see it that way.”
The air grew taut as Griffin inspected his thoughts. He felt impotent, powerless. Rae was no longer part of his life. How to protect her? He didn’t relish discussing the larger issues with Yuna, of all people, in the early stages of pregnancy, battling nausea. Under different circumstances, he’d never draw her into this. The concern brewing inside him brought him to an uneasy decision.
“Promise me something.” He leaned in for emphasis. “Keep an eye out for Mik. I’m not worried about Penny—she has low impulse control, but she doesn’t usually get too far out of line. Not unless she’s getting blitzed in one of the local bars and starts arguing with another woman. But if Mik contacts Rae—if he so much as sends a threatening text—I want a full report. If he shows up at the Witt Agency, or you catch wind he’s threatening Quinn—call immediately. I’ll take it from there.”
“What are you saying?” Yuna shrank back. “I know Mik’s been abusive to Quinn. Penny has been too. The bad stuff that happens in some families . . . it’s unimaginable. But Rae isn’t a part of that.”
“No, she’s not.” Griffin couldn’t halt the urgency in his voice. “It won’t matter.”
“She doesn’t know Mik any better than I do!”
“Forget logic, Yuna. It doesn’t apply to broken people.”
“Why should Mik care at all? He should be grateful Quinn has somewhere nice to stay, free room and board in a house with adults who really like him—no, more than that. Rae and Connor are invested in his welfare. They want to help him succeed in life, in all the ways that matter. It’s like he’s become a member of their family.”
Yuna cut off suddenly. Her gaze darkened with fear as it clung to his, seeking reassurance, needing a guarantee impossible to give.
“Griffin, be straight with me. Do you think Mik poses a danger to Rae?”
Unease stole into Griffin’s bones.
Yes.
Deftly, he hid the unease behind a look of reassurance. “No harm will come to Rae,” he promised. “Just keep me informed.”
Chapter 22
A long, hot shower was normally a weekend luxury.
Rae didn’t care. She took her time washing her long reddish-gold hair, savoring the therapeutic pounding of water droplets on her back.
Would more headaches spoil the new week?
Rae was tired of feeling like a criminal. She’d spent the better part of last week sprinting down the alley behind the Witt Agency for quick visits to Yuna’s shop, or to grab lunch at a nearby restaurant. An indignity, to be sure. There’d been no better option to avoid the flurry of obscenities pitched from Penny’s car each time she drove by.
At least Penny couldn’t dump more trash in front of the Witt Agency. Her days of risk-free vandalism were over. The nearby shop owners and businesses were now keeping an eye out. With tax season approaching, several of the overworked employees at the accounting firm were arriving for work at dawn. Later in the day, the owners of the antique shop took turns patrolling the street.
If Quinn’s mother planned more foolishness, she’d have to haul herself from bed before sunup. There was little chance a woman into late-night partying could pull off an early-bird routine.
Confident the new workweek would prove calmer, Rae took her time dressing and drying her hair. Out of habit, she reached for a scrunchie—usually she pulled her unruly tresses into a loose ponytail for the office. Tossing the scrunchie aside, she let her hair tumble past her shoulders. She felt good. There’d be no public shaming this week.
At just past seven thirty, she left her bedroom with a bounce in her step. An early start today—her boss, Evelyn, was back from vacation. Rae planned to catch up on paperwork before their ten o’clock meeting. Connor’s bedroom door was still closed; his rumbling snores drifted out as she walked past.
Quinn was at the kitchen table, staring off into space. His book bag leaned against the chair, zipped up and ready for the school day. Shelby, nosing around her food bowl, gobbled down the last chunks of kibble.
Rae turned on the coffeepot. “Aren’t you having breakfast?” There wasn’t even a glass of juice before him.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’re sure? I can make toast.”
“Don’t bother.”
Normally Quinn ate a hearty breakfast. If Connor woke early, lending Quinn an excuse to whip up a meal, a dozen eggs and half a pound of bacon could disappear from the fridge. Not to mention half a bag of potatoes, and most of the pancake mix. A teenager’s pride is a fragile thing, and Connor—grizzled and time tested like an old-fashioned stopwatch—was a skilled thespian. Playing his role convincingly, he pretended to need a large breakfast to start the day.