Page 228 of Things We Left Behind

“Man, how many times are you going to fuck this up?” he asked me. “Didn’t we beat some sense into you last time?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Apparently not. Talk.”

“I’ll be honest. I need to talk to Sloane. You can be here if she says it’s all right, but I’m not talking directly to you about this.”

“It was arson, wasn’t it?” I demanded. The thought had kept me up through the entire night. It was the only thing that made sense.

“Arson?” We all turned to see Sloane standing at the foot of the back stairs. She was wearing knee socks and an oversize long-­sleeve shirt that I wished I had seen when I was raiding her wardrobe. Her hair was exploding out of a knot on the top of her head. The bruise on her forehead was more vicious-­looking today. She looked so fragile and so beautiful I forgot how to breathe.

“Hey there, Sloaney,” Nash said gently. “How ya feelin’ today?”

“Sore. You said arson,” she repeated.

“That was Mr. Fashionista here,” he said, hooking his thumb at me. “But yeah. Investigators found evidence that someone set the fire in the back of the first floor near the kids’ section.”

Sloane’s face remained impassive as she crossed the kitchen and walked directly to the coffee maker. “Do you guys want coffee? I want coffee.”

Lina, Nash, and I exchanged a look. “Sure, honey. I’ll take some coffee,” Lina said and headed in her direction.

With the women occupied with coffee, I punched Nash in the arm and then shoved him into the dining room. “What. The. Fuck?” I demanded.

“What what the fuck?” he asked, rubbing his bicep.

“She almost died last night. You think you could break the news a little more gently, asshole?”

His eyebrows winged up. “You’re the asshole who said ‘arson,’ not me.”

“Who did this? I want names.”

“We don’t have any suspects at this time,” Nash said snootily.

“Bull fucking shit.”

“I do.”

I turned and found Sloane standing in the doorway holding a mug of coffee. Lina was behind her.

“Who?” I demanded.

She shook her head, making the bun on her head wobble precariously. “Uh-­uh. First, tell me how extensive the damage is and how long it’ll be before we can open again.”

I bared my teeth and Nash elbowed me. “Humor her,” he hissed under his breath.

“Why don’t we talk over those pancakes Lucian was making when we interrupted him?” Lina suggested.

I sucked in an irritable breath. “Fine,” I growled.

“Maybe don’t clench so many ass muscles, Lucy. You might owe Sloane a new pair of pants,” Nash said, slapping me on the back.

She blinked, then her eyes widened behind her glasses as if she noticed what I was wearing for the first time. “Those are my pants.”

“I’m not sure you’re going to want them back. He’s commando underneath,” Lina warned cheerily as we all trooped toward the kitchen.

I snagged Sloane’s hand and pulled her around to face me. She was staring at my crotch, so I nudged her chin up. “How do you feel?”

“Tired. Sore. And very, very mad.”

Mad was good. Mad was better than shattered.