Page 31 of Flint’s Strike

“Fuck.” I limp around the truck and take her arm. She doesn’t protest. The pain meds must not be doing shit for her. “Which one’s yours?”

“Three-oh-nine.”

The building’s older, with a single exterior staircase at each end. “Let me guess. No elevator.”

Parker huffs out a weak laugh. “That was five hundred more a month. I’m lucky I can even afford this place.”

I let that comment go for now, and let her lean on me up all three flights. It’s a testament to the amount of pain she’s in that she doesn’t stop me from helping her all the way inside.

Her apartment is tidy. Well-worn carpet, appliances one step short of antique, but there isn’t a spec of dust anywhere. I scan the space briefly, noting the smoke alarms—one in the kitchen, a second in the hall.

Parker drops her keys on the counter. “You’re officially off the clock, Flint. Go home.”

I turn, but before I reach the door, my gaze lands on the bookcase against the wall. “Holy shit. You have all of Marianne Watson’s cookbooks? I’ve been lookin’ for a copy of Low and Slow Cooking for two years.” I trail my fingers over the spines until I reach Sunday Table. “I use this one all the time.”

Her gasp has weight to it. More than I expect. I whip back around, half expecting to see her buckled over in pain.

Instead, she’s upright. Frozen in place. A single tear balances on her lower lashes. “Those… Marianne Watson was my mother.” The shape of the words, the quiet reverence in her tone, show me more of Parker Elmore than anything else she’s ever said to me.

I pull my hand away. “Comfort Food. That’s why you have one of their mugs.”

“She owned it for six years.” Parker stands perfectly still, her shoulders hiked halfway up to her ears, her chest tight enough I can clock every breath.

“Did my HazMat training in El Paso. I ate there for two weeks straight. Gained ten pounds. But her green chile casserole was the best thing I’ve ever tasted. To this day.”

The tear rolls down Parker’s soot-smudged cheek. “She’d have loved to hear you say that.”

Goddammit. Deep down, I figured something had happened to the famous chef. Parker’s reaction confirms it.

I don’t push for details. She’s too raw, and God knows I’ve got my own pain I don’t share with anyone. I’m about to tell her to call me if she needs anything, when she clears her throat.

“Dementia.” Her voice is flat. Like she’s practiced this over and over again until she can say it without breaking down. “I took care of her at home for a few years, but…” With a quick swipe at her cheek, she catches the tear. “Putting her in a facility was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Until I had to watch her fade away right in front of me.”

“Parker…” Shit. No words can ever erase the grief she carries with her every minute of every day. She’s damn good at hiding it, but it’s in her eyes. Etched in those blue-gray irises shining in the light from the setting sun.

“You…should go,” she says.

Yup. This is me. Going. So why are my boots glued to the floor?

She takes a single step closer, a muscle in her jaw tensing. I recognize the look. The effort it takes to hold in something so painful, it’s eating you from the inside out.

Crossing to her is the most natural thing in the world. And the worst idea I’ve ever had.

Parker’s entire body stills as my hand cups her cheek. Her eyes—Christ, there’s so much there. This woman is so much more than sarcasm and a gun. And those scars she carries, they cut deep.

Her eyes fill with tears, but she doesn’t turn away.

Leaning down, I press my lips to her forehead. It’s brief. Gentle. The kind of kiss meant to say only one thing.

I see you.

“You need anything, you call.” The words scrape over the lump in my throat.

“I won’t,” she whispers, and finally pulls away.

With a nod, I go, and it’s damn near impossible to stop myself from looking back at her one last time. But somehow, I manage. The lock thunks seconds after I shut the door.

Only then do I turn around and press my palm to the wood.