Page 9 of Beckett
“Sure.”
She showed me the routine—mucking out, laying fresh straw, checking water. Honest work that left no room for thinking about brothers who’d never answer their phones again or monsters who whispered promises in the dark.
When Lark disappeared around the corner, I walked toward the property’s edge. Just to look. Just to see.
The shed sat maybe three hundred yards from the main barn, tucked against the tree line like it was hiding too. Weathered wood gone gray with age, roof that probably leaked, door hanging slightly crooked. But standing. Private. Almost invisible from the main areas.
My feet carried me closer before I could think better of it.
The door protested when I pulled it open, hinges screaming rust and neglect. Inside, dust motes danced in streams of lightthat snuck through gaps in the walls. Concrete floor cracked but dry. Empty except for some ancient equipment—a broken wheelbarrow, coils of wire, crates.
But in the corner, miracle of miracles, a bare bulb hanging from a wire. I found the switch, held my breath, flipped it.
Dim yellow light flooded the space.
Electricity. Actual electricity.
I could have cried. Hell, maybe I did, just a little.
The shed was about twelve by twelve. Bigger than my car. Bigger than some of the motel rooms I’d stayed in. Push the old equipment to one side, lay out my sleeping bag, and I’d have a place. A real place.
More crates were stacked outside that I could use to block the door at night. Make it harder for anyone to sneak up on me. The gaps in the walls would let me see anyone approaching. Multiple exit points if I needed them—the door, that loose board in the back wall, maybe even up through the roof if desperation demanded it.
For the first time in three months, I felt something that might have been hope.
“Finding everything okay?” Lark’s voice made me jump so hard I nearly went through the roof without needing an exit strategy.
“I—yes. Sorry. I was just—” My brain scrambled for an excuse that wouldn’t sound like I was casing the place for a break-in.
“Looking around? It’s fine.” She studied the shed with a critical eye. “Keep meaning to deal with this eyesore. But somehow there’s always something more pressing.”
“It seems pretty solid still.”
“I suppose. Though I wouldn’t want to be in here during a storm.” She turned back toward the barn. “Come on. Let me introduce you to the cats. Fair warning—they’re all divas.”
I followed her, already planning. I’d need to be careful. Leave every day in my car like I was going home to town, then circle back after dark. Park somewhere hidden and walk in. Make sure no one saw me coming or going. Clean up any evidence each morning.
Lark wouldn’t understand. She’d want to help, probably offer a couch or connect me with services. But those things left trails. Asked for information I couldn’t give. Required trust I couldn’t afford.
Lark would be gone for the next two weeks anyway. But Beckett would be here. I’d have to keep it secret from him too.
Although part of me—the stupid part that hadn’t learned its lesson about trusting people—wanted to tell him who I was. Tell him about Todd. Watch his face change when he realized I was the sister his Army buddy had talked about. Maybe hear a story about my brother that I didn’t know, some memory from their time overseas that would make Todd feel less gone.
But that was dangerous thinking. Connections were dangerous. Caring was dangerous.
Better to be nobody. Better to be invisible.
Still, as I watched Beckett work with the dogs that afternoon, I couldn’t help but notice things. The way his whole body changed around the animals—tension melting, movements flowing instead of sharp. The patience in his hands as he guided them through security drills.
This was the man Todd had described.Thisversion. And I could see how my brother had liked him so much.
Beckett had four dogs in the training ring—a Belgian Malinois that moved like controlled lightning, a Rottweiler built like a tank with focus to match, a Dutch Shepherd who watched Beckett’s every micromovement, and Jet.
Poor Jet.
While the others executed perfect defensive positions, lunged at the padded arm on command, and held their ground with focused intensity, Jet kept missing cues. When Beckett gave the attack command, Jet approached the training dummy with his tail wagging, more interested in making friends than taking down threats.
“Jet, focus.” Beckett’s voice stayed patient, controlled. Not mean, never that. But I could see the slight drop in Beckett’s shoulders, the way he rubbed the back of his neck. He knew what Lark had told me—some dogs just weren’t meant for security work.
