Chapter 9 · Nobody Touches My Bed

The third kick ripped the yard gate off its hinges.

Metal screaming. Boots over gravel — four of them, maybe five.

Then a voice came up through the floorboards hard enough to rattle the coffee in my mug. "Voss! Drag your dead ass down here!"

I had one mouthful left. It tasted like a wet penny. I stood at the cold stove with both hands around the mug anyway, because it was the only warm thing in the loft that wasn't him.

Garrett didn't move.

He was flat under the gray canvas, one heavy forearm over his eyes, one bare foot hanging off the mattress like a man who'd never gotten an eviction notice in his life.

"They're coming up," I said.

"Mm."

"Garrett."

"Let 'em come up." Rough with sleep. "It's colder downstairs."

The stairs groaned. Sixteen steps of warped salt pine, and I could track every one of them by the squeak. I set the mug down, slid the drawer open, and got the boat knife. Four inches of stainless, dull from cutting wet mooring line. My knuckles went white.