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I wasn’t 100 percent miffed at Gerald’s appearance. Which was precisely the problem. I’d hardened myself to any and all social connections over the years. It was a way to ensure that things didn’t get messy, that I’d never again feel that bone-splitting agony of loss in the center of my chest that I’d learned to live with since the loss of my parents.

I’d done well without connection.

But Gerald’s presence was … comforting. His open and easy face inviting me to talk about anything and everything. Unburden myself.

But even those shoulders would buckle under the weight of what I was carrying. Gerald Hughes could handle a lot and had over the years. But not the truth about what lurked in the shadows, what killed his best friend.

And I was maybe still harboring a healthy grudge against him for not believing me—even though no sane person would have.

Gerald’s warm gaze turned troubled. “Can’t say I’m not just a little curious about where you’ve been all these years and why you left in the first place.”

My spine stiffened. It was one thing to go up against Colton—and that was hard enough. But I didn’t want to have to lie to Gerald, eventually being a cold-hearted bitch to him to get him off my case.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being a cop for thirty years, it’s knowing what questions to ask and knowing when to ask nothing at all,” he continued, eyeing me shrewdly.

I relaxed somewhat. I’d escaped the firing squad for the moment. I really hadn’t been looking forward to unleashing my inner bitch on my father’s oldest and closest friend.

“If you’re not here to ask questions, then why are you here?” My tone was even yet bordered on unfriendly. I was trying to subtly inform him he wasn’t going to get any kind of reunion or reconnection. Gerald was smart enough to read those cues. Stubborn enough to ignore them too.

He smiled sadly. “Because thirteen years ago, I lost two of my best friends. And not long after that, a girl who was like a daughter to me.” He shifted, resting his shoulder against the motel wall. “I’ve worried about you for over a decade. Just wanted to get eyes on you.”

Though the pain and tangible emotion in his voice hit me somewhere vulnerable, I didn’t let it show. Instead, I released the door, putting my hand on my hip. “And now that you’ve got eyes on me, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of things to say about who I’ve become.” The accusation I made wasn’t fair, but offense was the best defense and all that.

Gerald didn’t bristle at my tone, nor did he react to it at all. His gentle eyes stayed on mine. “No, honey, I don’t have anything to say about what you’ve become except that I’m proud of you.”

“Is this a joke?” I dug my fingernails into my hip. “Because you have no fucking clue what I’ve been doing for the past thirteen years. And I know your experience as a cop has you deducing that I wasn’t exactly volunteering with orphans.”

I didn’t doubt he hadn’t used his resources to look up my record. I was smarter now to ensure that I didn’t besmirch my legal name, had enough hacking skills to give myself the appropriate credit score and employment record.

But if you went back a little further, to when I was nothing but a clueless teenager on the run with vengeance in her teeth, you’d see the arrests, the debts, and all of the wreckage in my wake.

“It doesn’t matter what you’ve been doing.” Gerald flicked his wrist. “It matters that you’re here. You’re healthy, and it seems you’ve found that same spark your mother had.” He winked.

My chest burned at the mention of my mother and her “spark.” I struggled to remember it. It sure as fuck didn’t do shit for her against a werewolf.

“As much as I appreciate you coming here to reminisce,” I hated how thick my voice sounded, “I’m busy.”

Gerald nodded once. “Of course,” he replied as if I were not wearing sweats and didn’t reek of whiskey.

He reached into his pocket. “Other than coming to lay eyes on you, I came to give you this.”

I looked down to his outstretched hand. In it was a key.

I stared at it for a long time, memories assaulting my brain at the vision of the old, polished piece of metal. “What is that?” I asked quietly.

“The key to your home.”

My head snapped up as I banished all of those memories, shutting them behind the large, heavy mental vault I’d constructed for survival reasons. “I don’t have a home.” My tone was no longer even. It was sharp, venomous.

“You do.” Gerald’s tone remained soft, unencumbered by the hostility in mine. “You always have. I’ve just been takin’ care of it for you.”

Without giving me the chance to ask one of a million questions, Gerald gently took hold of my arm to open my hand and deposit the key into my palm.

It felt cold and impossibly heavy.

He placed a small card on top of it. “My number,” he explained. “Call whenever you’re ready. I’ll give you the alarm code too.”

Then he turned and walked back to his patrol car, leaving me holding the key to my childhood home. As if it weren’t a loaded fucking grenade.