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Gunnar looked sick. He was bleeding pretty steadily.

Heather knew they wouldn't be able to hold this stand off for much longer.She checked the clock above the mantel. It had only been twelve minutes since she had taken Melissa’s position on the couch. They’d spent most of that time talking.

They would have to take action eventually.

Gunnar had spent far longer than twelve minutes bleeding.

But Powell and her father were far too exposed, right in front of Trey. Trey could try to flee. But he'd trip over Powell's father, if he did.

They would have him. But what would happen in the meantime was what concerned her the most.Trey had that damned .40 caliber, and she was almost certain it was her stolen service weapon he was waving around right there.

They had to get Powell out of the middle. That was priority number one. She was right in the middle of them all. Exposed.

And Gunnar would do anything to keep her safe.

"Trey, you need to lower your weapon. Powell, you good?" Heather asked.

"As I can be. Feeling a little sick, though. Morning sickness is a lie. It's not just in the mornings. Happens at the worst possible times. I blame Gunnar."

“Oh, I know. Believe me, I know. I puked every thirty minutes with Francisca Bonita. With Kemberly Kaye—every twenty, I swear. But it does ease off. It’s worth it.”

Powell was holding up, not panicking. But she was afraid. They were all afraid.

They were playing it by ear, here. No denying that.

The man in front of Gunnar was just staring. His fear was in his eyes. He was one of the men who had been in the warehouse. Scarface's pal. The sheep.

Well. He would follow orders. She'd almost bet that. What else could he do? He was trussed up like a turkey now. "You. Just keep yourself real still, understand? I am really enjoying seeing you like this. Couldn't have happened to a better lackey."

"Is Pete really dead?" he asked. He was watching her, like she was his hope or something. Idiot. Asshole had run his hands all over her and Powell in that warehouse. He’d enjoyed having them helpless and bound. Now he was helpless and bound. Karma could be such a bitch.

"Pete the one you called Harvard in the warehouse?"

"No. Pete's my cousin. He just…wants extra cash to pay his student loans, that’s all. He's not a bad guy at all. He isn't."

“Student loans are such killers, aren’t they?” Heather just had to say it. This guy had been all about money, after all. "And, well, crime really doesn't pay all that well, dude. It really doesn't. Probably does pay better than the TSP, though. There is that."

Miguel snorted.

"Sorry about your cousin, pal," Miguel said in a tone that was anything but. "Guy points a gun at me, and I get cranky. Best tell his mother and father they should have raised him better than that. Or…he should have learned how to behave in those college classes."

"Is he dead?" the guy asked. He wasn’t so tough now, was he?

"Maybe? Didn’t really pay much attention. Don’t really care. He's not going anywhere for a while."Miguel had the big, scary, and intimidating down to an art form, that man. "This is my favorite shirt, though. It was a gift for my first Father's Day. My pal Nick bought it for me and put my little boy's name on it. It is my special shirt, damn it. I'm a bit pissed right now."

World's Greatest Dad was emblazoned across Miguel's broad chest.

"We'll get the bloodstains out, Mig. Summer has this laundry detergent recipe she uses that is phenomenal for bloodstains."

"There really isn't anything that girl can't do, is there?"

"No. There isn't. She is a Coleson, after all."

Timothy's face pinched at that.Well, well, well. Interesting.

"What, Tim, do you actually believe my girls think of themselves as Grundenmans ? They definitely won't ever again now, considering."

"No. I suppose they won't. I lost them eighteen years ago."

Timothy's eyes met hers. They were lighter brown. Eden's eyes. Eden resembled himthe most. Even more than his evil Trey spawn.

"I cannot lose my children again. I just can't."

"You've already lost them, Timothy. You already have."