"Then walk," she whispered. "I double-dog dare you."
He could have lied. A small, neat lie that would have made this easier. But Will Trent didn't do small, neat lies. He did hard truths that got stuck in his throat.
Angie’s hand dropped. For a second, the mask slipped—not the tough-girl mask, but the one underneath. The one that was just a scared, broken kid from the Home who never learned how to be loved without being hurt first.
"Okay," she said, so quietly he almost missed it. "Okay."
Will closed the door behind him. The deadbolt clicked with a sound of finality. He didn't sit. He learned long ago that sitting next to Angie on a bad night was like sitting in a fire. You’d get burned, and you’d thank her for the warmth.
"Of the part of me that can't walk away from you," he said.
