"Stay put." Finn scooted away and the physical pang of his loss made her gather herself together more than any other motivation in the world.

"Where else would I go?" she said to no one before curling her legs under her and wrapping her arms around a throw pillow.

The shock was fresh, but anger was more welcome. Until she wasn't trembling from fear, but because of her immediate reaction to use Finn for comfort. Had she learned nothing from her past? No man could be trusted, no matter the good intentions that came to the table with them. All of that could change in a split second. She'd seen enough evidence to know fairytales were lies. Which is why she wiped her eyes, forced a stiff upper lip, and tried to gather the current chaos in her brain into something coherent.

Finn had gone back into the kitchen. When he hobbled to the bathroom with his body blocking something Delila fought off her urge to get up off her perch to spy. The only thing that stopped her was his gruff voice over the running water.

"Do you have paper nearby?"

She nodded, blinking, and realizing he couldn't see her at all with his back turned. Without responding she went to the writing desk in the corner—her mother's before the...incident—and fumbled for a pen and paper before sitting back down on the couch. While he finished washing up she concentrated on her hand holding the pen, glaring at her fingers as if she could will them to stop showing her weakness.

"What can I do? If there's anything even remotely helpful...I'll do whatever it takes. Those..." she swallowed and forced her voice to level out. "Those photos with that woman are something I'm partly responsible for and if I can bring whoever did that into the light, you only have to tell me how to do it."

"Good, we can work with that attitude, Lila."

The old name made her flinch and she fumbled with the pen, almost dropping it to the carpet.

"I need you write down anything odd or suspicious you've seen, heard, or been involved in over the past few days. Anything that seemed off about anyone? Or any odd timing that negates an alibi for someone before the post office incident? Don't spare a single detail if it sticks out, got it?"

When the water turned off, she tried her best to sift through the last few days.

Everything at the shelter had been chaotic and full of motion. Before she put her head on the pillow at night there was always a pile of extra things to decide, fix, address or otherwise handle in order to keep the place afloat with regulations.

How was she supposed to recall what she ate yesterday? Let alone who had seemed bizarre or out of place? But she'd given her word that she would try, so regardless, she'd do what she promised.

Woman tailing me after the Post Office

Victim's boyfriend harassing the victim around her workplace as well as threatening to come to her home

Victim's boyfriend possibly becoming aware of victim's involvement with Open Arms, Open Hearts

Misogynistic, threatening notes claiming I'm a slut and that women aren't to be trusted

Phone calls where the caller hangs up as soon as I pick up

Police refusing to become involved in the harassment/Sheriff Draper's sexist comments

Pictures of the recreation of my parent's murder

She barely looked up when Finn set a mug down on the left side table.

"Making progress?"

A quick glance up and she saw him looking strained as if he wanted nothing more than to pace. His whole body was coiled, ready to spring the trap and take down their troubles in one dangerous shot of adrenaline. And yet he didn't move. Maybe it hurt too much. Instead he lowered himself onto the couch as their thighs brushed together and looked at her growing list. "The sheriff should be here by now."

Rather than moving away from him she made the conscious effort to stay put and deal with the displaced emotional energy riding the crackling tension between them. His waves of displeasure practically pushed past her armor of carefully distanced casualness.

Until she could no longer ignore his brooding frown. Or the way he ground his cane into the hardwood floor as if he meant to dig their way out of the mess set in front of them. The determination was palpable in the set of his shoulders and the weight of his stare. Her nostril's flared taking in short breaths of his spicy scent that was all over her t-shirt and jeans.

Agitation prickled across her skin and she wanted more than anything to pull back from his raw energy, knowing the power passion had when it was unleashed on the wrong target. But she wouldn't back down. He didn't deserve to know the affect he'd had on her body. She licked her lips, ignoring the slight dizzy spell that swept her up.

"You stopped writing," his comment was light. Yet it was enough to push her forward again.

"I'm thinking."

After the flimsy excuse, she looked at whatever he'd placed next to her on the table. Before she could register anything else about the steaming mug, the comforting aroma of caramel and white chocolate lingered beneath her nose. She picked up the cup of white hot chocolate with caramel topping and chocolate marshmallows.

How could he have remembered something from so long ago? Absolutely the stupidest detail. Her throat tightened and she blinked. Comfort swept through her body releasing the drawn tension in her shoulders. Ultimate relaxation in a mug, at its best and most refined.

"Thank you." Politeness was easy between them—that was nothing personal.

Thoughtfulness was something she'd never expected to associate with Finn Cort again. At the very least she could bite the bullet and thank him. The thick chocolate slipped down her throat like liquid crack cocaine while she tried to refocus on the list. All the while she sensed his stare searching her face.

"You're welcome. It was the least I could do."

Logic crept in to override the simple pleasure she wanted to soak up in the moment. He wasn't being nice purely for the sake of being nice. He was doing it to clear her head, make sure nothing was out of place on her list.

Clearly he had more motives than a simple, thoughtful gesture because she'd just had a traumatic experience—how was she expected to handle all of this at once without some emotional support? All she had to do was watch him from the corner of her eye to guess his motives. He was tense, practically vibrating with nervous energy. She'd always been able to read him and time hadn't changed that between them.

Forget the past. Delila had to live in the present.

She had to come up with a workable list that the Sheriff could use as a jumping off point so he'd take her more seriously, especially now that there were two dead bodies. The woman in the pictures had needed Delila's help—and she had to turned her down because the shelter didn't have the resources or the space to house anyone else.

There would never be a mistake of that magnitude again. A victim needed her unconditionally—and whether alive or dead—she would get the dead woman answers. It was the least any of the women under her roof deserved—a second chance and justice.

"Done."

"That's all of it?"

Delila glared and was half-tempted to stab him with the pen. His face was wiped of any emotion until she couldn't read behind the mask. A mask that he'd acquired all those years he was out of her life.

"I wouldn't screw this up."

When he didn't argue, she was grateful. A sharp knock on the door nearly made her spill her hot chocolate in her lap.

Finn held up a hand, and she didn't argue when he got up to answer the front door.

God, she couldn't even look toward the entrance to her house. A mixture of shock and repression vying for her attention. Now that she stared at her notepad reality came crashing onto her shoulders in an unbelievably horrifying night.

Again.

The first time had been nearly three months after Finn had left for basic training. She'd come home from the library where she was doing an internship before she started college. Oddly, she still recalled the gorgeous sunset painted across the sky in shades of oranges, purples, and reds.

When she'd walked into the house the silence that blanketed every room made her hesitate to go forward because all her life there'd always been something happening behind closed doors. The hiss and sting of sharp words. Shouting. Loud classical music to drown out her mother's sobs.

Sometimes she didn't even bother to hide the bruises when she was inside the house with no functions to attend or galas to oversee for the night.

That night Delila could hear nothing. Which should have said everything.

She found them in the living room. Her father had taken things a step too far.

Violence was in her blood. She'd never be rid of it. She attracted danger like a perverse magnet.