Spirit. Brigid Kemmerer

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      And then he didn’t say anything.

      Hunter scowled at the windshield. Pride was pricking under his skin, trying to convince him to climb out of the car at the next stop light.

      The promise of fifty bucks was keeping his ass right here in the passenger seat.

      But really . . . the atmosphere in the car wasn’t tense. He had a task, something to take his mind off his mother and his grandfather and the mess of a situation he was in.

      Michael hit the turn signal and eased the truck onto a gravel driveway that led back to a sprawling ranch-style house on the water. “Look,” he said. “I’m not upset about the Bill Chandler thing. I get where he was coming from, asking you to watch Gabriel.”

      “I wasn’t—it just—” Hunter stopped himself and sighed. “It wasn’t like that.”

      Michael stopped at a curve in the driveway and threw the truck into park. “Put the hat on and grab those rolls of landscape fabric.”

      So they weren’t going to talk about it. Fine.

      Hunter slid out of the cab. He pushed his hair back from his face and tucked it under the cap, breathing in the air off the water. The house sat alone on a few acres of land, and even here, in the driveway, they were a good hundred feet away from the front door. He felt better now that they were outside, with the sun on his skin. Casper bounded out of the truck to sniff at pallets set off to the side of the driveway, stacked with cut stone and sacks of soil and mulch.

      Despite the breeze and the water, the whole place had a quiet stillness. It felt nice against his senses.

      “Is anyone home?” said Hunter.

      “Nah. They don’t need to be.” Michael pointed inside the curve of the driveway where the manicured lawn was broken by an eroded slope. “We’ll build a wall to match the curve today, then I’ll come back next week to plant stuff on top. Here. I have a sketch.” He reached inside the truck to grab a clipboard.

      Hunter took a glance at the rough drawing. It was probably a good thing Michael was paid for landscaping instead of artwork. “Got it. What’s first?”

      Michael was looking at him a little too closely. “Did you get in a fight at school?”

      “What? No.”

      “Then what’s with the bruise?”

      Hunter wanted to pull the hat off and let his hair fall across his face again. He hadn’t noticed a mark this morning, but then he’d been hustling to get out of the locker room before the first bell since he wasn’t sticking around for classes. “It’s nothing.”

      For a second, he thought Michael was going to push. Hunter didn’t look away, but inside his head, his brain was spinning out trying to think of some excuse to give.

      But Michael just gave half a shrug and turned, gesturing to the grassy slope again.

      The work was harder than Hunter expected. He kept his mouth shut and did as he was told, digging and laying stone dust and staking rebar. It felt good to work, to put his hands in the earth and let the sun draw sweat from his back. The cut stone was heavy, and he was really feeling it in his shoulders before they had a third of the wall built.

      He straightened and stretched his back.

      And from the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of movement between some trees by the road.

      Hunter froze. He watched for a moment.

      Nothing.

      Stupid. This house was way back off the main road. It could have been a deer, or a tree branch moving in the wind. All he could hear was his breathing and the water hitting rocky breakers. He dropped his guard and let the elements speak to him—but whatever it was, the elements didn’t mind its being here.

      But something about it had bothered him, caught his attention and held it.

      He kept thinking of Calla in his bedroom, sneaking in to hold a gun against his cheek.

      He wished he had a weapon. He wished he had a weapon right now.

      “What’s up?” said Michael.

      “Nothing,” said Hunter. “I thought I saw something.”

      He was ready for scoffing, because there was absolutely nothing around, but Michael put a hand to the ground and tilted his head. “I don’t feel anything malicious.” He paused. “But I’ll pay attention.”

      Hunter kept his senses wide open now, laying stones as Michael directed, but focusing most of his attention on the road.

      Michael glanced over. “Does this have something to do with the fight you didn’t have?”

      Hunter didn’t look at him. “No.” He shrugged. “I’m just on edge.”

      Another stone went on the wall. Michael wiped his forehead against his sleeve. “Does this have something to do with why you were ready to level the Home Depot?”

      Hunter’s hands went still on the rock in front of him.

      Michael didn’t say anything else, just laid another one without stopping. He flung the stones like they weighed nothing, and they slid into place perfectly. Hunter would have called him a perfectionist, but he’d bet Michael did it without thinking.

      Another stone hit the wall, and Michael glanced over. “Think and work at the same time.”

      Hunter grabbed a stone, letting a slow breath out. “I wasn’t going to level the Home Depot.”

      “Maybe not intentionally.”

      Hunter ran through the last twenty-four hours. Calla. School. Kate. His grandfather. Spending the night in his car.

      Jesus, his throat felt tight again. He slammed the stone into place, feeling the impact all the way up to his shoulders.

      Michael flung a stone next to his and remained silent.

      And after a minute, Hunter realized he was going to stay that way. Michael wasn’t going to push. Hunter relaxed into the rhythm of the work again.

      Then he felt . . . something brush his senses. His head snapped up.

      Just as Casper growled from the grass nearby.

      Wind came off the water to blow across the lawn, toward the road. The air carried no power, no direction. No help there. The sun had dropped behind distant trees and houses, leaving long shadows tracing across the grounds. Michael had a hand against the dirt, his eyes trained on the clusters of trees now.

      Hunter thought of Calla again and wondered if she’d been following him, whether she’d choose this house to set on fire, just to screw with him.

      But she would have had to follow him all day, right?

      Casper growled again.

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