Page 55 of Marked By Tank
Chapter 8
Tank
Oneweek.
That is all it took for the safe house to stop feeling like a bolthole and start feeling like hers.
Her coffee mug in the sink.
Her shampoo and body wash lined up in the bathroom after I took her into town two days ago and made her buy whatever she needed.
My shirt hanging off the chair by the bed because she wore it to sleep and I liked the sight enough not to move it.
One week of her in my space, on my bike, in my bed, under my hands.
One week of her saying my name like it means something.
Too damn much for seven days.
Not enough either.
She is standing by the kitchen counter now, pulling her hair back while morning light cuts across the cabin. Jeans this time. One of my black shirts. Boots.
I watch her tie it off and lean one shoulder against the doorway.
“You sure about this? Going back to your house?”
She looks up at me.
Not confused. Not hesitant. She knows exactly what I mean.
“Yes. We’ll be in and out.”
“We can send one of the prospects.”
Her mouth tightens. “For the papers, maybe. Not for my mother’s necklace.”
“Why?”
“Because I hid it.”
That gets my attention in a different way.
She glances down, then back up. “After Mom died, Earl started pawning everything that looked worth anything. Tools. Her jewelry. Even some of her kitchen stuff.” Her voice goes flatter. “I knew if I left it out, they’d sell it.”
“So where is it?”
She hesitates.
Then, “Somewhere they never found.”
I study her face for a second. Pale still, but stronger than she was a week ago. Eyes clearer. Mouth steadier. She is scared. She is going anyway.
No way in hell was I leaving her behind.
I push off the doorframe. “Then we go get it.”
She nods once like she knew that answer was coming.
