Page 87 of Jersey

"Have you seen Kiva?" I ask, trying to divert his attention. "She normally greets me by the front door. You didn't hurt her, did you?"

His eyes widen as if I've accused him of something horrible.

"The dog? Caitlyn, no. I'd never hurt your dog. She got out when I came into the house. She wouldn't come back when I called for her."

I give him a nod. It's better news than I thought he was going to give me.

It still doesn't bode well for my old gal though. It's freezing outside.

"H-how long have you been waiting for me?"

"I came through the woods," he says, pointing toward the back of the house with the gun. "Right as you were leaving this morning."

"She's been out there for hours?" I say, unable to keep the sob from escaping my lips.

"I didn't hurt her, Caitlyn. I promise. I didn't even mean to hurt them."

His eyes are frantic as he begins to pace again.

Hurt them.

Terror triples inside of me.

His children. He has to be talking about his kids. If he's capable of killing his own children, then I have no doubt he has it in him to hurt me. My mind also considers how crazy it is that he swears he wouldn't hurt my dog, but he has hurt children.

Feverish tears streak down my cheeks as I shake my head, trying to reject the idea. I have to be mistaken. Please let me be wrong.

"Can we open the back door a crack in case she comes back?"

"We can't," he says, shaking his head maniacally, the gun waving around in front of him with his finger on the trigger. "They'll get inside."

I know just how easily a gun can be discharged when your finger's on the trigger when you're not prepared to shoot. It happened to me twice the other day when I was training with Zeus. I can't help but dip and sway when it points in my direction in an effort to avoid getting shot in case it does fire.

"They're out front," I remind him. "Check again for me."

I watch as he pulls back the curtain on the front window, thinking maybe one of them needs a chance to shoot him, but he lets the curtain fall back into place without incident.

"I think they're here to kill me," he says, his eyes darting all around the room as if there might be something in my small home that he could use to prevent that from happening.

"They aren't," I say. "No one is here to hurt you. They just want to know why you're here today. Are you struggling? Let's talk about it."

He shakes his head, but instead of refusing to speak, he takes a seat right beside me, so close that our thighs touch. I flinch when he reaches out to touch the side of my face.

"You'rescared of me."

"I'm not," I assure him. "The gun is making me very nervous, though. Can you set it down while we talk?"

I genuinely think this man is in crisis. Although I do have some training on how to handle such crisis situations, my education was geared more toward children who lack the ability to tell exactly how they feel because they don't have a full understanding of how emotions work. With him being grown, I don't know if that will make this easier or more difficult.

He places the gun in his lap, but the angle on it is too weird for me to easily grab, and I just can't stomach the idea of shooting this man. No matter how many times I pulled the trigger in the little gun range back at the Cerberus cabin, the idea of shooting someone makes me want to wretch.

"Thank you, Miles," I say, giving him the best smile I can manage.

I swipe at the tears on my cheeks, but they're replaced just as quickly by fresh ones.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he says, reaching out to touch me again but pulling his hand back at the last moment as if he remembers the one time I told him all those months ago that touching people without permission isn't okay.

"I'm just worried about you and the kids."

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