Page 35 of Things Left Unsaid

This time, her mouth wobbles at the threat. Because that’s exactly what it is—a promise, too.

She knows it and is quick to rasp, “I-I’m sorry, Ms. McAllister.”

I dip my chin. That’s all I’m capable of.

She stays there, hovering, her gaze darting to Colt, but he looks at me as if I’m in control of this matter.

Right.

With a huff, I mutter, “Give my best to Mr. Browne, ma’am.”

She takes that as the offer of escape it is. Hilary darts away like a frightened rabbit, though not once did Colt raise his voice.

He ignores how I scowl at him and instead prods Harry with a repeated: “How’s the foot?”

Harry goes with the flow like the pro he is. “They’re talking about amputating it! Goddamn diabetes. Had fewer carbs than one of those keto people for the past two years and it’s still winning the battle.

“Anyway, less of that doom and gloom. How do you feel about sampling some not-so-sugary sugar cookies?”

My brows lift in intrigue.

Tee was right—Iama masochist. The cookies I bake always use sugar because sugar alternatives, while affordable, aren’t as cheap. And though I can eat them with careful carb management, Tee’s the one who wolfs them down the most so why would I make her suffer their laxative effects?

Colt smiles at me. It’s more genuine this time. “You ready to sample some?”

“Sounds good to me,” I tell him, discreetly checking my CGM and blood sugar level on my phone.

Once I see they’re normal, I input the carbs I guesstimate are in butter tarts and sugar cookies.

Honestly, I’m the world’s best guesser.

Living by the dots is a never-ending balancing act.

There were times after the fire, I used to ignore the alerts. Only Tee checking on the app and not letting me get away with murder kept me in line.

She’s the reason I’m alive today.

When the closed loop between my CGM and the pump is triggered, it gives me a reading on how much insulin I need so I hit okay.

Harry peers at me over his glasses. “Forgot you were a diabetic, Suzy McAllister.”

“Wish I could,” I say lightly.

“Long time since you’ve been in town.” His words are polite—but after that display, he’d have to be insane to talk down to me.

Like he usually does.

“Didn’t think you’d recognize me, Mr. Lippard,” I mock, though I keep my expression blank.

“I never forget a face. Still, it’s probably for the best you’ve come to visit. Your grandmother’s not been doing so well and those brothers of yours are out of control.

“Why, Calder’s started tagging. Colt knows?—”

My brain screeches to a halt. All thoughts of the strange interlude out on the street, the stranger one in here, and Lydia Armstrong’s fate fade at this news.

Disapprovingly, Colt frowns at him. “It’s all handled, Harry.”

“What is?” I urge. “What did Calder tag?”

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