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Tyrone nodded and picked up the fake white egg and the blue egg, comparing them to understand the difference. I moved on to the next box.

“Careful there,” I warned when Ezra paused by a hen that had not yet left the nesting box. “That one tends to get broody after she lays. She pecks pretty hard. You can grab a pair of gloves over there, or move on to the next one and I’ll handle her.”

Ezra didn’t respond. He reached for the eggs. The hen delivered two rapid pecks. When he pulled his hand back, dark red blood beaded in the center. He stared at it for a moment, then swiped it on his jeans.

I sighed and made for the first-aid kit by the door. “I’ll get you a Band-Aid.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You can’t let an open wound go uncovered in a barn, Ezra. That’s how you get staph infections.”

He shrugged as I placed the bandage over his torn skin. A bruise was already forming around it. “Accidents happen.”

I was quiet. This wasn’t an accident. He’d heard me, and he’d stuck his hand out anyway. Like he didn’t care if he got hurt. Like maybe he wanted to get hurt.

Dammit. I was good at the noticing. I saw the warning signs. But knowing what to do about it? Saying the right thing, something profound to put it all in perspective? I fumbled.

Aaron would know what to say.

Two decades as a SEAL, ten of those as a team commander, and Aaron Jones had seen some shit. He’d be the first to say he didn’t have all the answers, but somehow it felt like he did.

But Aaron wasn’t here, because Aaron had kissed his wife and two daughters goodbye and taken one last mission before his retirement. Only one person had survived that mission, and it wasn’t Aaron.

It wasn’t Aaron, or Malcolm, or Jake, Ty, David, Chris, Will, Danny, Cade, or Brandon. Not a damn one of them made it home.

It was me.

I should be grateful. That was the word everyone used. Doctors. My parents. The commanding officer who suggested I was no longer mentally fit for duty. I should be grateful that I had survived with nothing more than a few scratches.

But I wasn’t grateful. The truth was, I was pissed as hell.

Because Ezra deserved Aaron’s wisdom and guidance.

Instead, he was stuck with me.

10

SEB

Sheriff Sherwood faced me across his worn oak desk with his hands folded over his still-flat stomach, gray eyes flinty beneath his bushy salt-and-pepper brows. His snow-white mustache was long and wide enough that I couldn’t see if he smiled a greeting when I sat down, but since I’d never seen him smile at anything other than his two daughters and granddaughter, I saw no reason to believe he’d start with me.

My gaze snagged on the manila folder front and center on his tidy desk. Even upside down, it was easy to read the label. Lila Ford. The police reports.

“That for me?” I leaned forward, pressed my middle finger to the folder, and slid it closer.

Sheriff Sherwood slid it back. “It’s for me. Whether I share it with you depends on how you answer my questions.”

Victims had a right to their police reports, but they tended to leave a lot out. It was much harder to get the real files if you weren’t law enforcement. When I’d asked Sherwood to access the reports from three different precincts, he hadn’t questioned my need to know. I should have known he wouldn’t hand it over without a fuss.

“I’m not hiding anything,” I said. “Lila Ford is an old friend. She asked me for help, and that’s exactly what I’m doing. You’re more than welcome to verify that fact with her yourself, if you’re not convinced.”

“An old friend.” Sherwood’s lips twisted wryly. “Is that what we’re calling estranged wives these days?”

“You ran her background.”

“Three assaults over five months. Seemingly unrelated except for the victim. Piqued my curiosity.” He flipped open the folder. “Lila Elizabeth Ford. Age thirty-three. Born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, to Ronald Jenkins and Vanessa Ford. Her parents divorced shortly after her birth; her father relinquished parental rights, and Vanessa took Lila to San Francisco to be closer to her family. Seems the father was unstable. Although from the police report dated a week after Lila’s birth, some might argue Vanessa was, too.” Sherwood looked up at me from beneath his raised brows.

I stared back at him because I didn’t agree with that assessment at all. “You saw the part where he nearly killed his newborn daughter, right?”