Chapter 13 · Nobody Touches What's In My Bed

The bolt cutters sheared June's padlock at 1:40 in the morning. The chain dropped and rang off the wet boards loud enough to wake the whole harbor.

Nothing woke up. That was the part crawling under my skin.

Eleven nights I'd watched that gate with June's crew parked at the top of the ramp, headlights off, waiting to see if I'd do something stupid. Tonight the ramp was empty. So I did something stupid.

I shouldered through the gap. One panel wide, just enough for a woman in a wet coat. The lockbox rode against my ribs, cold as a river stone. Three years under my bed, eleven days in my coat, and my back still ached from sleeping on the floor instead of over it.

Then headlights swung across the pilings and lit the rain up white.

Three of them came down the ramp. Doyle in front, gray stubble, a logging chain hooked over his shoulder like a man who never clocked out. The twitchy kid in the oversized Carhartt behind him.