Page 77 of Property of Fang
I stride through to the storage cupboard, retrieve a quilt, then cross to the kitchen area to snag a few paper napkins. Jenna’s taken the seat when I return to the heart of the barn, legs drawn up before her, feet perched on the edge of the stump.
“Here.” I pass the blanket over and then set the napkins on the table.
“Thanks.” The woman can’t meet my eye.
The inevitable shame of a person too proud to admit they struggle.
I drag another stool closer and sit opposite her, elbows rested on my knees. Bringing the captive women here was always going to be complicated. But bringing Jenna here brought things to a whole new level. She’s single-handedly managed to tangle the interests of three opposing clubs, setting fires wherever she went.
Killing the dead girl was a mistake. But her need to protect herself wasn’t.
“When did you realize?” I ask.
She lifts her reddened eyes to mine, clutching the bundled blanket in her lap like a teddy. “What?”
“Who Mary-Beth was.”
Jenna swallows, gaze averted as she whispers, “When they took our hoods off.”
“Thought you said you didn’t know who she was, though.”
Jenna sighs. “I never said that. I’d seen her around, but we weren’t friends. Never spoke before.” Her tongue peeks out to wet her lips. “I thought she didn’t knowme.”
“But Mary-Beth recognized you.”
She nods.
“What did she say?” I press, eager to understand how things went south between them. What triggered Jenna to protect herself? Was it as simple as the implied danger from being recognized, or was there more?
She sighs, snagging one of the napkins. Jenna blows her nose, then fidgets with the crumpled paper. “Do we have to talk about this?”
“Was there any point to you opening a wound if you didn’t intend to bleed out the rot?” I tilt my head to look her in the eye.
She peers up at me through wet lashes.
“What was she like, Freckles?”
“Mean.” She huffs a small sound of amusement. “There’s probably a better word for it, but that was the sum of it.”
“How did she recognize you?” If her mother kept Jenna separate most of her life, then how did this woman know?
“She frequented a shop I worked at for a little while.” Jenna dabs at her nose again. “Saw me talk with Dad one day after my shift, not long before Mom died.”
“How did you recognize her?”
She rolls the quilt on her lap. “Mary-Beth’s the kind of woman who’s hard to forget. She was just as loud and mouthy in the street as she was in that basement. I overheard her talking a few times about the club, and how much of an asshole her father is. Plus,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder with a thumb. “She wore the associate patch, so it wasn’t hard to know which club she meant.”
“And she told you that she’d seen you with your dad?” I grab the clean paper napkin and use the corner to wipe the remaining moisture from the swell of her cheekbones.
She studies me the whole time I do, gentle breath tickling my cheek.
“It was the fifth night we were there,” Jenna says once I lean back again. “Two nights before you showed up. Most of the others were asleep.” She hesitates, looking away as she studies the memorabilia and ephemera hanging on the timber walls. “She’d watched me for a few days, always listening when I spoke and eyes on me with everything I did. She flat out asked me if it was true—if he was my father.”
“You could have lied.”
Her mouth curls a little. “I knew by the look in her eyes she didn’t need my answer.”
“Then what?” I lean in again, elbows to my knees, invested.
