Page 49 of Graveyard Dog

“I hope so. There’s an unhoused teen, too. I hope she’s okay. I try to take her a sandwich or at least some fruit every day.”

“So, you feed those experiencing homelessness in your spare time?”

“Just her. I was very much like her when I was young. She camps out near the diner and comes in every day for coffee. Black. ‘No frill, just chill,’ she says.”

Michael stilled.

Izzy didn’t notice. “She’s such a lovely girl, and she looks really healthy, considering she’s been unsheltered for several months. I worry about her, though. A young, beautiful girl like that living on the streets alone? She must be terrified.”

He let his lids drift shut as an emotion startlingly similar to blind rage devoured him whole. “What’s her name?”

“Elle.”

“She wouldn’t happen to have long, black hair and huge amber eyes, would she?”

“Like a lion’s. Yes. How did you know?”

Michael rubbed his forehead. He was going to kill her.

Izzy checked her watch. “She’s probably starving.”

“Oh, I think she’ll be just fine.” Until he got his hands around her neck. He wouldn’t kill her quick. He would torture her first. For a very long, very satisfying time. He heard waterboarding was both fun and productive.

A soft knock sounded from the hall.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Michael said. He put down his beer and walked to the door, exhaustion taking a very real hold. But when he opened it, his energy seemed to skyrocket. Probably in anticipation of the upcoming torture session. “Speak of the devil’s daughter.”

“Granddaughter,” the girl said, strolling in like she owned the place.

“Elle!” Izzy jumped to her feet.

“Hi, Izzy.” At least she had the common sense to look ashamed. As she should be.

Izzy looked from her to Michael. “You two know each other?”

“May I sit down?” she asked.

Michael said, “No,” while Izzy said, “Of course.”

Izzy looked between the two, confused.

“Is it confession time?” Michael asked.

“Yes.” She sank onto an ottoman. She wore her long, dark hair in a ponytail, the absence of bangs accentuating her huge, amber eyes. Even in a hoodie and sweats, the kid was stunning. Michael and the guys had their work cut out for them.

Izzy followed, sitting on the sofa once more but leaning close to the girl.

“I’m sorry, Izzy. I’m not unhoused.”

Izzy frowned, trying to put the pieces together.

“The owners of the diner are my parents. Or, well, technically, my grandparents. It’s a long story, but they have been raising me with the help of”—she glanced at Michael—“several other people. Including Michael.”

“Wait, you’re his charge?” When Elwyn nodded, she said, “Okay, but why would you lie about having no home?”

“I’m not finished,” she said.

“No,” Michael agreed. He sat beside Izzy. “She’s just getting started.”

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