It wasn’t Humbolt’s fault, exactly, although I got the impression that he wasn’t excited about getting the names changed on all the paperwork, even though he had the decency not to say so explicitly. Or maybe it was the fact that one of the two people who was supposed to inherit our mother’s property was currently being held on suspicion of his client’s murder.
I’m sure that was a very large potential legal headache.
All I’d been able to determine was that at least one of us had to legally appear at the house to take possession of what Momma had left us—especially in the event that Father wasn’t actually dead. Virginia was a common property state, which meant that most of what Momma had went to Father, not that she’d ever been allowed to have much. None of us had. But she was able to legally dispose of the few things she’d had before they married—some of her grandmother’s jewelry that she’d always promised Noah could have, some hand-embroidered linens, a few other odds and ends.
I had to go back both because of whatever Humbolt needed me to do and—more importantly—because I had to get Noah the fuck out of jail.
At least they were holding him in Staunton. There was literally nothing that could have been worse than Noah being held in custody by the so-called Justice of the Peace named by the Community.
Nothing.
Elliot wokeup as I pulled into the TA Travel Center just across the Illinois border.
“Fuck,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Baby, you should have woken me up hours ago.”
“It’s only been three,” I told him, pulling up at the gas pump.
“Still,” he replied. He stretched, and, despite everything, I couldn’t help but appreciate the flex of his muscles and the leanness of the stomach he bared as he raised his arms overhead, the lines of his elaborate tattoo vivid in the sunlight coming in the passenger window. “Let me take over?”
“Okay.” I was tired—I hadn’t really slept the night before—and that wasn’t helping the ache in my back or my knee. I slid out of the driver’s seat, wincing as I half-hobbled over to the pump. My left knee wasn’t the one I used to drive, but having it crammed in the car and unable to stretch meant that it had locked up.
The fact that I was tense as hell wasn’t helping, because I couldn’t get the muscles to relax.
A hand on my arm made me jump. “Go sit down, Seth. I can do this.”
I blew out a breath. “I need more coffee.”
He pressed his lips together. “You need water and sleep,” he replied gently.
“I have a water bottle,” I replied. “I don’t have more coffee.” I turned and limped toward the plaza building, using the distance to work out at least a few of the kinks in my hip and knee. And to put some distance between me and Elliot before I said something I’d really regret. Elliot was trying to be supportive and helpful, and I was being an irritable jerk.
I returned with two iced coffees as a peace offering to find Elliot had finished filling the tank and moved the Cruiser close to the door. I clambered into the passenger side, passing over the iced mocha.
“Thanks.” Elliot took a long pull. “You doing okay?”
“No.” Not on any front—mental, emotional, or physical, although hopefully I could at least ease some of the tension in my lumbar by dropping the seat-back down. I did so.
It didn’t noticeably help.
Elliot backed out of the parking space and headed down the ramp back to the highway.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, once we’d safely merged back into traffic.
“No.” I was in a foul mood, surly and sharp, and I knew it. But I didn’t want to talk about the fact that my mother was dead, my father was missing, my twin was in a jail cell, and I was being essentially forced to return to the one place on earth that I didn’t fucking ever want to go again. I didn’t want to have the feelings I was feeling, and I didn’t want to talk about them because talking about them would make them more real. I’d have to take them out and look at them, instead of trying to stuff them back down into whatever little lockbox I had buried at the bottom of my gut.
Elliot’s hand gently squeezed my thigh above my knee, and I turned my head to look out the passenger window so he wouldn’t see how hard his simple gesture had hit me. I still wasn’t usedto someone putting me first, even though it had been over half a year since Elliot had first kissed me. Since he’d told me he loved me. Since he’d tattooed my paw-prints on his skin.
I blinked rapidly to clear the tears, even though I was pretty sure he knew they were there. “Sorry,” I mumbled.
The hand on my quad squeezed gently again. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he told me. “Nobody can tell you how something like this will hit you.”
I knew he spoke from experience.
But it wasn’t my experience. He’d loved his father. And everything I’d heard about Gregory Crane told me that he’d loved his son right back, gay, shifter, and all. He’d loved Hart like a second son.
Mine hadn’t loved the sons he had.
“They were horrible fucking people,” I spat out, a little surprised at my own anger.
