Page 62 of Tell Me Something True

“Well, then,” Tabitha said, “in the spirit of being honest and open, let me assure you that I’m not out to hurt Miles. And while I think it’s commendable that you want to protect your brother, Miles is more than capable of taking care of himself.”

“Just because you don’t mean to hurt someone, just because you don’t want to hurt them, doesn’t mean you won’t.”

Tabitha inclined her head, a silent touché. “I really do need to get this truck unloaded, so if there’s nothing else…”

“You didn’t accept my apology,” Verity blurted.

“Do you need me to accept it?”

Why did that sound like a trick question?

Or something a therapist would ask?

Verity shifted. Crossed her arms. “I guess not. It’s just…” She let her arms drop. “I meant it. You know, in case you thought I wasn’t being sincere. Because I was. I am.”

“It’s very clear you say exactly what you mean.”

Verity tossed up her hands. “Why does everyone make that seem like a bad thing?”

“Everyone? Or a certain someone?”

Then she sent a long look at Reed.

“He’s just one of many,” Verity grumbled.

Tabitha’s expression softened. “I have no doubt of your sincerity and I do accept your apology.”

Relief flowed through Verity. “Thank you.”

But when she turned and walked away, she made it only two steps before whirling back around. “And I know Miles can take care of himself. It’s just that in my family, we all look out for each other.”

More than that, her brothers have always taken care of her. And now that she was finally old enough, she wanted to do the same for them.

“You’re all very lucky then,” Tabitha told her softly. “Most people have to look out for themselves.”

The way she said it made Verity think Tabitha was one of those not-so-lucky ones.

Verity once more glanced at Reed.

Just like someone else she knew.

***

“In,” Reed told Titus, holding the truck door open with one hand and gesturing for his dog to get into the truck with the other.

Titus whined. Ducked his head and plodded toward the truck—a dog walking his last mile. At the door, he sat and shot Reed a pitiful, pleading look.

“It’s an hour. You’ll survive.”

And while letting his dog sit in the truck that long wasn’t ideal, it was better than leaving him at the trailer.

Pete Walsh was a mean bastard when he was sober. When he was drunk?

He was a fucking demon.

And Pete was always drunk.

“Come on,” Reed said, pretending not to notice Verity’s bare legs in those goddamn shorts, the sway of her hips, or the bounce of her breasts as she walked toward him. “Get in.”

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