“Who’d believe the word of an orphan, a foster kid with a reputation for being…difficult?”
Nick chuckled. “I have no problem imagining you as a difficult teen, but a liar? Never.”
“Thanks, but that’s the system for you,” Dylan said, waving her glass around.
“I’m sorry about what those assholes did to your house,” Nick said. “I’ll organize some paint in the morning.”
“It’s okay. I’ll get back at them somehow,” Dylan said with a wicked smile.
“Do I even want to know?” he asked.
“It’s probably better you don’t,” Dylan replied before downing her third glass.
“You really should learn to sip your drink,” Nick said.
“And you should loosen up. Have some fun!” She waved her hands around and danced to an imaginary beat.
“I’m loose,” he said with a fake rapper accent. “I’m down with the rest of you.”
Dylan laughed but stopped when the room began to spin around her head. “I think I’m about to pass out.”
“Oh, boy. Let me help you upstairs,” Nick said, jumping up from the table.
“Thanks,” Dylan said as he hauled her upright. She giggled the entire way to her room, each step a challenge to her wobbly knees.
She fell onto the bed and hugged her pillow while he removed her boots. As he covered her with a couple of blankets, she asked. “Do you really think I’m pretty?”
Nick brushed a tendril of hair away from her cheek. “I think you’re beautiful.”
Dylan grinned as glorious darkness descended over her, dragging her into the depths of sleep. “A beautiful monster.”
Chapter 8 - Saul
Saul was woken up the next morning by a loud knock on the door. With a groan, he eased out of bed, taking care not to wake Tara. She mumbled something in her sleep before turning over, and he extricated himself from the blankets without disturbing her. Hopping around on each foot, he pulled on a pair of pants and a shirt.
Shivering in the bitter cold, Saul jogged downstairs and yanked the door open with a scowl on his face. “Sergeant? What are you doing here so early in the morning? It’s a Sunday, for God’s sake.”
Sergeant Dean smiled. “Sorry, but I come bearing gifts.”
The sergeant held up a can of white of paint, a brush, and a brown paper bag. Saul stared at the man like he’d grown two heads. “Fine, I’ll let you in, but this had better be worth dragging me out of bed at seven on a Sunday morning.”
“Coffee would be great,” Sergeant Dean said in reply before placing his things on the kitchen counter. He opened the brown paper bag and pulled out five freshly baked muffins and a small container filled with butter. “It’ll go great with these.”
Saul stared at the muffins with his mouth agape. The delicious scent of melted chocolate chips teased his nostrils, and his stomach growled with protest. “Where did you get those?”
“Oh, they’re for higher-ranking officers only. A weekly treat prepared in the kitchens, but I know one of the cooks, and he owes me a favor,” Sergeant Dean said with a wink.
“What’s the paint for?” Saul asked.
“You don’t know?” The sergeant leaned back with a frown on his face. “What time did you come home last night?”
“Around nine. Why?”
“It would’ve been too dark for you to see it then.”
“See what?” Saul asked with rising confusion.
“You’d better go check the front of the house. Someone left a message for Dylan, and it’s not pretty.”
Saul walked onto the porch and stared at the writing splashed across the white wall, the red paint garish in the early morning light. “Son of a —”
He stomped back inside and put a pot of water on to boil. “Dylan saw that?”
“She did.”
“That explains the missing half-bottle of scotch.”
“Yeah, I had to put her to bed. She’s got no head for strong liquor,” Sergeant Dean said with a shake of his head. “Anyway, I thought I’d get here early and cover it up. I really don’t want to experience a Dylan pushed to the edge of sanity.”
“Trust me, you don’t,” Saul said, remembering the night Fort Knox fell. She’d been a vision from hell that day. Not something you wanted your kids to see.
“What’s this? A visitor so early?” Tara said, appearing in the kitchen. She was bundled up in several layers of clothing and stifled a yawn behind her hand.
Saul explained about the message, and Tara went to have a look. She came back as pale as a ghost. “Poor Dylan.”
“That’s why I brought the paint,” Sergeant Dean said, accepting a steaming cup of coffee.
At that moment, Dylan came stumbling down the stairs. She wore an oversized hoodie, boxers, and bunny-eared slippers. Her hair was a mess, and purple shadows decorated her eyes. She looked like a zombie, and for a moment, Saul wondered if the virus had finally won the battle. “God, you look awful.”
She pulled a face. “Thanks.”
He eyed her bare legs. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Nope.” She stared at them for a couple of seconds before falling into the nearest chair. “Man, my head hurts.”
“I’m not surprised,” Sergeant Dean said, fishing a couple of painkillers out of his pocket. “Here you go.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” She swallowed the tablets with a glass of water handed to her by Tara before spotting the can of paint. “Thanks for bringing that.”
“I hope it’s enough. I could only get the small can,” the sergeant said.
“Don’t worry about it, Nick. I’m sure it will be fine,” she answered with a wave of one hand. “I could use a cup of coffee, though.”
“Nick?” Saul said as he poured Dylan a cup of the hot brew. “That’s your name?”
“The one and only,” Nick replied.
“Good to know,” Saul said as he distributed the muffins. “There’s one extra here.”
“It’s for the doctor. Isn’t he here?” Nick asked.
“He didn’t come home last night. I assume he spent the night at the infirmary,” Saul explained.
“I’ll put it away for him,” Tara said, tucking the brown paper bag into the nearest cupboard. “It won’t be so fresh, but that doesn’t matter. Thanks anyway.”
“My
