Page 7 of Graveyard Dog

“Emma,” Izzy said, scolding her daughter softly.

But it was too late. Michael stilled when he realized the girl showed signs of malnutrition: dark circles under her eyes, hollow depressions below her cheekbones, wrists the size of his pinky.

“That was a long time ago,” Izzy said, placing a mug in front of him.

“How long?”

“Cream and sugar?” she asked, evading his question.

What could’ve brought her to Santa Fe? It was one of the most expensive places to live in the US, according to his personal observations, which bore no resemblance to scientific data in the least. He glanced at the duffel bag. They had food now, too. He wondered how her circumstances had changed so drastically. Did her ex starve them? Is that why she ran?

His hackles were rising, and he didn’t even know what hackles were. “How about we make a deal?”

She put some nondairy creamer and a sugar bowl on the table, then sat across from him, her own cup in hand. “What kind of deal?”

“How about you answer my questions, and I don’t call the cops for assault?” He would never call the police, but she didn’t know that.

Her body stiffened with the threat, but she pretended to be unfazed and doctored her coffee with meticulous care before answering. “I’m sorry. I mistook you for someone else. Can you leave, and we’ll just call it even?”

“Not today, Cupcake.”

She looked up in surprise. Or desperation. He wasn’t the very best at reading people.

“I’ll find another place to stay,” she pleaded. “We never have to see each other again.”

No way in hell was that happening. “Answer my questions, and I’ll think about it,” he lied.

She pressed her lips together and went back to her coffee. “I don’t know if I can address them all.”

“What do you say we give it a shot?”

She lifted a shoulder as she stirred, the weight she carried darkening her features. “I get to ask questions, too?”

“Of course, but unlike you, I live a pretty boring life,” said the guy living in a compound with the child of two gods, at least three ghosts, and a man who could see the last moments of a person’s life on Earth. And that wasn’t counting a deceased rottweiler named Artemis, twelve hellhounds, and countless othertalentedhumans.

She took a long draw of her coffee, glancing at him from over the rim, then refocused on the cup as she set it in front of her. “You first.”

“Again. Who’s after you?”

“My ex.”

So, he’d been right. “Why?”

“Because he’s an asshole.”

“Did he hurt Emma?”

Startled, Izzy’s gaze darted back to his. “No,” she said, shaking her head. “I would never have allowed that.”

Thank God for small favors. “Why did you tell me she wasn’t your daughter? Because of him?”

She dropped her gaze again and swallowed hard before answering. “Yes. He doesn’t know about her. I left before she was born. He had no idea I was even pregnant.”

“And you thought I would tell him about her?”

“Yes.”

“Why? What makes you think I even know him?”

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