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the silhouette of a man drawn in white.

I stare at the silhouette. At the rounded shoulders, the lines of the neck, and the empty oval representing the head.

Unbidden, a pair of hazel eyes come into my mind. A forehead with deep wrinkles framed by salt and pepper hair. A round face with a small dimple in the chin.

The image is so clear, so real, that for a moment, I think I won’t be able to shoot. But my finger finds the trigger anyway, my other hand bracing the gun as I squeeze just like the instructor taught me.

There’s a loud bang, and the gun jerks in my hand as a small hole opens up on the edge of the target’s left shoulder.

A surprising pang of disappointment fills me.

I wanted to hit the face.

“Damn, Low! Nice shot.” Chase whistles as he sets up his own shot. “You sure you’ve never done this before?”

I shake my head, already lifting the gun to try again. The recoil is a bitch—or maybe I’m just a baby—but I don’t even care. My arms will be sore tomorrow, but it’ll be worth it.

River watches me with something warm burning in his storm-gray eyes as I shoot two more times, and then he takes a few shots of his own as the instructor steps in to correct a couple things in my technique.

The five of us stand in a line, and I lose myself for the next hour in the erratic pop, pop, pop of guns firing.

They were right. It is a good way to blow off steam.

And I get better with practice, managing to hit the target with more and more accuracy.

By the time we leave, my arms are shaking, but I do feel better. River slips his arm around my waist as we walk out of the building into the cold January air, pressing a kiss to my cheek.

I wonder for a second if he would’ve been allowed in the gun range if they knew he was partially deaf—if it would’ve been considered a liability or something—but it’s sort of a moot point, since he’s so good at hiding it that I’m sure none of the staff at the gun range even guessed.

Wrapping my arms around him, I squeeze him back and tilt my head up to find his eyes.

“That was a good idea. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

His lips find mine this time, and it feels… nice to kiss like this. Casually and openly, without thought or hesitation.

We all crowd back into Dax’s car and head to a diner nearby for a lunch of greasy burgers and French fries. Then we sit in the car in the nearly empty parking lot and pass around a joint as tiny snowflakes dance around in the air outside, too light and little to fall straight down.

Throughout everything, the guys have been careful never to call this a “celebration”. In fact, there’s been almost no reference to my birthday at all, except for by the twins this morning.

I’m glad. I don’t want a celebration. I don’t think I could celebrate right now.

But this is better than that anyway.

It’s a reminder that I’m not alone.

8

“Dammit. She didn’t know Iris at all?”

“No.” Lincoln shakes his head, wadding up his napkin and tossing it on the table. “She matched the description Savannah gave you—goes to Waverly, has a flower tattoo, but she’s not the girl we’re after.”

“Shit.”

My soft curse is nearly drowned out by the sounds of the lunchroom around us. The kings and I have taken over a table near a wall on the far side of the room, isolating ourselves so we can talk without worry of being overheard.

The guys thought they got a lead on Wednesday, so Linc snuck over to Waverly yesterday to see if he could find the girl who introduced Iris and Hollowell.

But if it wasn’t her, that means we’re back to square one. Another week has gone by with nothing, and Mom’s trial date marches steadily closer. I visited her again yesterday, and even though she tried to hide it, I can tell she’s scared out of her mind. In some ways, the trial will only be the beginning, but for some reason, it feels like it will be the end. Like even just walking into that courtroom will seal her fate.

She told me Scott Parsons was enthusiastic about her suggestion of basing her defense on her character, but I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. The man is an idiot.

I run a hand through my hair, glancing around at the crowded cafeteria. Savannah is sitting on Trent’s lap several tables away, but her baleful glare keeps flicking in our direction for no reason that I can figure out besides the fact that she’s a sullen little bitch.

Ignoring her stare, I turn back to look at the guys. “Are we making a huge mistake? Should we just take what we know to Detective Dunagan and let him take it from there? He’s the one who’s got the training and resources to investigate, not us.”

“Yeah, but he’s also the one who arrested your mom based on planted evidence,” Chase mutters, his gaze darkening. “And even if we trust him, we don’t know what cops Hollowell has in his pocket.”

“Going to him without solid evidence is risky.” River chews his lip as he thinks, speaking softly. “He might not even investigate if it’s just your word, especially if he has any idea Hollowell plans to run for office. It’d be a risky move politically to start poking around in his life without a very good reason.”

Fuck. I know he’s probably right, but I hate it.

We can’t just wait this out though. We need to do something, find some piece of evidence strong enough to convince Dunagan that this is worth looking into.

We need to find that fucking Waverly girl.

But the weekend turns up nothing.

On Monday, I shuffle through classes like a zombie, relying heavily on the guys to make sure I don’t

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