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“No.” I lurched to my feet, dislodging her when I took thesheet with me.

She squeaked out a protest and jumped up, cradling the pupto her as though its life were in danger.

I wrapped the sheet tighter and stepped around her to get tothe bathroom and, more importantly, the shower. But when I passed, I caught aglimpse of her expression in the mirror, the distress that flickered across herface when she scrutinized every visible inch of me. I certainly didn’t mind theattention, but the concern was unwarranted.

“It looks worse than it feels,” I lied.

Busted, she met my gaze in the mirror and shook her head. “Idoubt that.”

I paused before disappearing into the bathroom and asked,“You worried about me?”

As though unable to admit it, she pulled the pup closer andheaded for the door. “I’m going to take Flo for a walk.”

“Flo?”

“Short for Florabel,” she said, so matter-of-factly Ilaughed out loud.

It hurt.

So did washing and shampooing and moving in general. Idecided to preserve what energy I could and forego shaving for the time being.The scruff would help disguise the abrasions, too. Win-win.

The shower helped with the soreness, but painkillers werestill on the breakfast menu. As for the rest of the day, I needed to get Halleto trust me. To open up. If she knew something about Paul Meacham that wouldhelp us figure this out… But what? Had he assaulted her when she was a kid? Wasshe afraid of him? Her secretive behavior would suggest an absolute yes to bothof those questions, but I didn’t want to assume anything. And I didn’t want torisk her mental well-being.

Unless I absolutely had to.

Halle’s signature knock sounded at the door.

I strolled over and asked through said door, “Who is it?”

“It’s me.”

“Me, who?” Yes, I was a five-year-old trapped inside athirty-three-year-old’s body.

“I got breakfast burritos.”

I swung the door open. “Way to bury the lead.”

She stood there, food in one arm and the furball in the other,as I walked back to the mirror. I’d been in the middle of trying to tame themop that grew wild on the top of my head—a testament to the never-ending struggleof man versus nature.

I was brushing my hair with my fingers when our gazes met inthe mirror mid-fluff. She was still standing at the door like a deer inheadlights. I looked down and realized the massive bruise that ran from mylower left abdomen up to my right shoulder must’ve surprised her. “It’s not asbad as it looks. Promise.”

She blinked back to life and stepped inside, closing thedoor behind her. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I got a couple of options.”

“Always a good plan. You didn’t happen to pick up a bottleof morphine while you were out, did you?”

“No, but I have some ibuprofen.”

That’d work. Hopefully.

She put the furball on the bed. It yipped and ran incircles, as excited about the burritos as I was.

I gave up on my hair and sat at the small table by thewindow as she put a box on the floor and unpacked the bag. I wondered about thebox. Not enough to ask, but… She lifted out a cup of coffee. “Coffee, too?” Istole one and took a sip. Lukewarm but mouthwateringly delicious. “You mustreally like me.”

She paused, cast me a sideways glance, then continued herwork. “I got one with bacon, one with ham, and one with sausage. And can I justsay, for the record, you look really good in a towel?”

I stilled. Was that a compliment? Did she just complimentme? And, fuck, Iwasin a towel.

“I’m sorry.” I jumped up, grabbed an armful of clothes, andheaded back to the bathroom. “I live in a kind of compound,” I said through thedoor, “with like a thousand other people, and none of us were gifted with anoverabundance of manners.”