Page 16 of Graveyard Dog

“No way can I leave now. This is just getting good.”

“Who are you?” she asked as though he could tell her why he was immune to her ability.

He reached a hand over the bed for her to shake. “Cavalcante. Michael Cavalcante. Though growing up, my friends called me GD.”

She ignored his hand. “GD?” she asked, remembering the tattoo on the inside of his forearm with the letters GD inside a pair of salivating canine teeth, the dog behind them a Rottweiler. A mercurial moment of déjà vu flitted across her mind, like trying to grab a handful of fog and having it slip through her fingers.

He shrugged and folded his arms over his chest. “Long story. How about we get back to our regularly scheduled program?”

She gave up. She had no choice. It wasn’t like telling him the truth would change anything. He wouldn’t believe her. They never did. At first. It was only after they began to believe her that the trouble started, and she had no intention of proving herself. Basically, she was making a mountain out of a molehill. A deadly, cancerous molehill.

She drew in a deep breath and said, “I’ve done terrible things.”

“Who hasn’t? Keep going.”

“No, really. I’ve hurt people.”

“Sounds like you didn’t have much of a choice if someone was controlling you.”

She dropped her gaze to study her scuffed boots. “That doesn’t excuse everything.”

“How about you explain, and I’ll give you my two cents? If you want them. But don’t spend them all in one place,” he added, warning her with an index finger.

He was impossible. All charm and charisma. She didn’t owe him anything, but she decided to give him a heads-up nonetheless. “You won’t like it.”

“I never liked eating vegetables either, but what can you do?”

Or maybe he would. Fine. He wanted the truth? He would get the truth. She tossed him a challenging glare and said point-blank, “I began robbing banks when I was seven.”

Chapter Four

I’ve never had a problem I couldn’t make worse.

—True story

“Seven?” Michael asked. Of all the things he’d imagined she would say, robbing banks while still in elementary school had not made the list.

“Seven,” she confirmed. She picked up the paperwork and began filling it out.

“Seven sheets to the wind because you’re a lush?” he guessed, unable to process her statement. Trying to rob a bank drunk seemed plausible. He’d certainly done worse in an inebriated state.

“Seven years old,” she clarified. “Before that, it was convenience stores.” She checked a box. “Pawn shops.” Check. “Liquor stores.” Check, check, check. “But my stepfather wanted bigger scores, so banks it was.”

Michael stared at her for a long moment, trying to decide whether to believe her or not. He’d determined early on that she was a little off her rocker. Maybe she was more off the thing than he’d imagined. Perhaps she’d taken a sledgehammer to it and used it for firewood.

“Iz,” he said, trying to be as gentle as possible, “can I call you Iz? You’re hardly intimidating now. How did you manage to rob banks at seven?” And why had it never made the evening news? A story like that would have been on60 Minutes, for sure. Or, at the very least, theNational Enquirer.

She stared back at him, and he figured it was fair. He’d done it first, those eyes so mesmerizing he had a hard timenotstaring. “Like I said, I was forced.”

He laughed under his breath and scooted farther down in his chair. “Okay, I’ll bite. We have way more in common than I thought. Another long story. Only I certainly didn’t start at seven.”

“You robbed banks?”

“Let’s just say, someone was controlling me. And my friends. But enough about me…”

“No, this is really interesting,” she said, trying to distract him. She lowered the pen and leaned forward to encourage him.

He was easy, but he wasn’tthateasy. “How old were you the first time youassistedyour stepfather?”

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