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She stills, pinching a piece of wallpaper between her fingers midair as she looks at me. “Why?”

The simple word irks me. Moving is about me leaving more than any actual destination. The truth is I don’t care. It’s about being somewhere else where I can breathe deep and not constantly be reminded of every wrong thing I’ve done or failed to do. Maine or New Mexico, I just don’t give a shit.

“Because I want to,” I snap. “And no more questions about me and your dad.” She opens her mouth. “Or where I’m moving.”

A noise outside takes my attention to the window. Ford backs his truck down the driveway, stopping just shy of the bird feeders.

Wren and I stand at the wall of windows, watching as he gets out of the truck. He’s wearing dark pants, duty belt, and an army-green T-shirt with a black bulletproof vest over it, lacking the uniformshirt that’s usually over it. He drags a bag of birdseed to the tailgate and rips it open then fills each feeder before tossing the empty bag into the back and slamming the tailgate.

Molly gives a loud bark and he waves, easy smile on his face.

“Nothing, my ass,” Wren says. “My dad’s feeding your birds.”

“Don’t say ass.” I don’t look away from Ford as he starts walking toward the house. “And I’m not into birds, only monsters. His efforts do nothing for me.”

“Whatever,” she mutters, going back to her patch of wallpaper as Ford climbs the steps of the porch and enters the house through the propped-open door.

“Officer Callahan,” I say. “Back for more punishment, I see.”

“A glutton for it,” he says with a quick wink before looking around the house. “Looks good in here.”

“Liar.” I shake my head as I accept the truth: It’s a wreck. The carpeting is out of the living room, but the cabinets still need to be demoed out of the kitchen. As well as the heavy pieces of destroyed countertops. And the linoleum floor that covers that half of the house. And the appliances that are so heavy I could only get them to the middle of the downstairs before nearly dying. “I was hoping to get everything out and start painting next weekend but that feels . . . ambitious.”

“Want help?” he asks.

Dear God, yes!

“I’m good.”

“Done!” Wren shouts, proudly showcasing a large strip of wallpaper between her fingertips. “And I’m leaving.” She peels hergloves off and jogs to Ford, her combat boots pounding against the floor until she stops to give him a hug. “I have that study group at the school. Lily’s mom is picking me up.”

He kisses her temple. “Have fun. Text me if you need anything.”

“Sure.” Sweat mats her hair to her forehead and she rolls her eyes—which she might do more than blinking—before we regard one another.

“Thank you for helping,” I tell her. “You’re more useful than you look.”

“You’re shockingly less useful than you look,” she says, devoid of emotion.

I feel a smirk tug at my lips. “See you tomorrow?”

“Is that a question?”

“Only if that’s yours.”

She shakes her head, but there’s a pep to her movements as she trots down the porch steps. “Hey, Dad?” she calls, lifting her bike in the driveway and walking it a few steps. He steps in the doorway. “I think Scotty still has the hots for you.”

“Hey!” I shout, shoving Ford out of the way so I’m standing on the porch. “I was trying to forge a relationship by being vulnerable, you tattletale. And I never said that!”

She ignores me, already pedaling down the road.

When I look at Ford, he’s smug, and I feel my neck heating—I’m flushed. This kid is the absolute worst. “I didn’t say that.”

He fights a smile. “Explains why you made me strip.”

“That,” I explain, flustered, “was because I wanted to see if your dick sprouted feathers.”

He barks out a laugh, eyes roaming the disaster of a house. “This the better thing you had to do the other night?”