Page 6 of Graveyard Dog

The woman tried to explain but couldn’t figure out what to say. “I didn’t—I-I thought—”

“Who’s after you?” he asked, hoping for an answer this time.

“No one.” When he offered her his best deadpan look, she added, “Someone from my past. When I saw you, I thought he’d found me.”

“Why?” Before she could answer, he asked, “Is that window stuck?” That was a clear code violation. He’d been reading up on codes since he’d purchased the building.

When he walked around the bed toward them, the woman didn’t grab the Taser. She grabbed the gun—the fake one—and pointed it at him. She really needed to up her game.

“Scoot,” he said when he got close enough to be tased had she thought things through.

Instead, she kept the gun on him as she moved to the side.

“Ah, there are two latches. You only unlocked one.” He unlatched the second and raised the window just to make sure it opened. It did, so he closed it, resecured the latches, and turned back to them. “Why did you think your ex had found you when you saw me?”

With every move slow and calculated, she inched around him, taking the girl with her as she backed toward the door.

He followed. Apparently, they were going to have this conversation in the kitchen. Or the living room that was as small as his left ventricle.

The minute they got to the kitchen, the woman rushed to the coffee maker and slammed a K-cup into the dispenser. Addiction was a terrible thing.

The girl waited for him to emerge from the hallway, then took his hand in hers and led him to the table. And…he was lost.

“Can you pick up your dishes, sweetheart?”

“Can’t I just kick them to my room?”

The woman hid a smile and said sternly, “No, you may not.”

“Mom,” the girl said, drawing the title out until it formed several different-pitched syllables.

Michael pressed his lips together to keep an ill-mannered grin at bay. “Can I ask what your names are?” When the woman didn’t answer, he added, “You know I can just look at your rental agreement.”

She drew in a deep breath and turned to him. “I’m Izzy. That’s Pickle.”

“Pickle?” he asked, impressed.

“This week,” Izzy added.

“Oh, yeah?” He smiled down at the girl as she tossed plastic dishes into a box that had seen better days. “What was it last week?”

“Biscuits and Gravy.” Her face lit up like she’d just won a trophy.

He fought that grin again, tooth and nail. “I like it.”

“Me, too, but Mommy said it was too long.”

He chuckled. “I’m sensing a pattern. Are all your nicknames food-themed?”

She picked up a pink teapot with a cracked lid. “Yeah. I really like food.”

“Get outta here. I do, too.”

“Really?” She stood and plopped her crossed arms on the table. “What is your very favorite thing to eat?”

He thought for a moment, then said, “Probably biscuits and gravy with a pickle on the side.”

She crinkled her nose and laughed out loud, then sobered and asked nonchalantly, “Is it because you were hungry for a long time, too?”

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