I nod again, and a second later Jake is leading me out the door. As soon as the family-room door closes behind Wes/Les, I hear Mandy screech, “How dare you!”

   Jake leads me outside to his truck. He helps me into the passenger seat and puts my seat belt on like I’m a child. We’ve only said those two words to each other since he came back.

   “Wait here, okay? I’m just going to run in quickly and change.” He’s still in his baseball gear. He returns what feels like a minute later wearing the same cap, dark jeans, and a light-gray Henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up.

   “Feel like hitting something?” he asks, settling into the driver’s seat.

   “You know a way to a girl’s heart,” I joke, still feeling dazed.

   He reverses out of the driveway, changes gears, then holds my hand the rest of the way.

   We end up at the batting cages.

   Of course we do.

   Jake’s standing at the pitching machine, adjusting some dials while I stand in the cage, bat in hand. He comes over to me and adjusts my hands on the bat. He tells me when the right time to swing is. I take in everything he says.

   He goes back to the pitching machine and presses a couple of buttons. The balls start shooting out. I hit the first six out of the park.

   His eyes bug out of his head. “Okay, smart-ass!” he yells, but it comes out “smuht-uhs.” Australians don’t use r’s, apparently.

   He plays with some more buttons. The next few pitches come out faster, but I still manage to hit every one. He’s chuckling and shaking his head in disbelief. He turns it up faster.

   This next lot gets me. I’m probably fifty-fifty hits to misses. After no less than thirty swings, I shout, “Okay, I’m done!”

   He turns the machine off and strolls over to me. “Want to tell me what that was about?” he asks, chuckling in amusement.

   I ignore his question and hand him the bat and helmet. “Thanks, Jake. I really needed that.” And I did—I really did.

   “Seriously, though—where did you learn to hit like that? I would never have expected that.”

   Just as I’m about to answer, someone yells out his name. We turn to see about five guys walking over to us. When they reach us, they do that weird bro code handshake/fist bump/shoulder slap/half hug greeting then shoot the shit for a few minutes. I see one of them staring at me, eyes roaming up and down my body. He creeps me out.

   “Who’s your friend here?” Creeper says loudly, interrupting their conversation.

   Jake throws a possessive arm around my shoulders, and I lean into him. “Guys, this is Mikayla. Mikayla, these are—”

   “She your girl?” Creeper asks, interrupting him again. His eyes are trained on my tits. Ugh.

   “For now,” a girl says from behind them. She makes her way to the front of the group.

   Casey.

   Where the fuck did she come from?

   Jake tenses. Luckily for us, my phone sounds with a text. Aunt Lisa is letting us know that the detectives are on their way. I show him the text, and he excuses us. We walk back to his truck, his hand on the small of my back.

   We ride back in silence, but halfway there I look over at him. His cap is pulled down low on his forehead, almost past his eyebrows. He senses my looking at him and glances at me. He smiles that panty-dropping smile then turns back to face the road, smile still in place.

   “So . . . Casey, huh?”

   His expression falls instantly, and we don’t talk for the rest of the ride.

JAKE

   When we pull up to the house, an unfamiliar black sedan is already there. We make our way into the living room to find them seated, waiting. Dad’s here, too.

   The detectives stand up to shake Kayla’s hand. Kayla sits in the recliner, and I sit on its arm. She takes my hand in hers and tries to get comfortable. They wait for her to be settled before they sit back down.

   “Ms. Jones, I’m Detective Richards. This is just a courtesy visit—” the first detective starts to say.

   “Micky. Call me Micky, please.”

   “Micky.” The detective nods at her.

   The second detective speaks up. “And I’m Detective Frances. We just wanted to update you on the case. There’s not much to report. We’re doing everything we can, but we still haven’t found the person who did this.”

   “Okay,” Kayla says quietly.

   “We continue to be under the impression that it was random. There is no evidence to indicate otherwise, unless you have further information that might change that.”

   Kayla shakes her head.

   Detective Richards jumps in. “It looks like the perpetrator was there for a simple burglary. We suspect that your family walked into the middle of it.” His voice thickens. “We also believe that they tried to burn the evidence. They started a fire in the garage, which got to all three cars and to most of the kitchen. Unfortunately, by the time the fire department arrived, the fire had consumed the entire front of the house. We’ve swept the place clean of any evidence we might need, so you can return to collect any personal belongings that may remain. But the fire department has deemed the house structurally unsound, and it will need to be torn down. We’re very sorry, Micky.”

   Kayla’s eyes brim with unshed tears, and Lisa moves to the other side of the recliner to comfort her.

   The detectives share a look, then Detective Frances eyes Kayla. “Ms. Jo—uh, Micky.” He corrects himself. “There’s one other thing. We don’t want to go into too much detail about the crime, but we thought you should know that the victims . . .” He takes a deep breath.

   Kayla grips my hand so tightly that the blood drains from it. She leans forward in the chair, waiting.

   “The victims all had a single gunshot wound to the head. They died instantly. They weren’t in any pain, Micky.”

   Kayla’s entire body convulses, and she falls to the floor. I scoop her up and sit down in the recliner, rocking her in my arms. I sweep the hair off her face as she cries into my chest.

   The detectives stand up. “We’ll see ourselves out,” Detective Richards says. “Thank you for your time. We’ll leave you to grieve with your loved ones, Micky.” Dad shakes their hands.

   Loved ones.

   I think I do. Love her, I mean.

   I think I’m in love with this beautifully broken girl.

   I carry her upstairs to my bed, and that’s how I spend the night—with her crying in my arms.

FOURTEEN

            JAKE