“You alright?” Travis glanced around the bare, grey cell, his mouth curling down.
Hunched against the far wall, arms wrapped herself, Rosie didn’t answer. When she turned her head, his stomach clenched at the shine in her eyes. She pushed off the wall and swung around, arms dropping to her sides, her eyes dry and shuttered, her face settled in familiar disdain.
“Do I look like I’m alright?” she asked, her voice that bit too sharp. “Does this look like someplace I belong?”
He held up his hands. “Okay, stupid question. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
Turning away, he glared at the cop blocking the doorway, like a piece of ill-placed furniture, the indistinct and helpless rage quietening as he recognized the look in the young man’s eyes. It was the kind of bewilderment most men felt when they looked at the contradictions of Rosie Blackburn. Small-boned, her body whip-taut, possessing more strength than easily imagined. A wild mass of dark curls framed a face of delicate features and smooth skin, the crow’s feet around her eyes and the lines bracketing her mouth fine, deceptive of her age. It was more the brittle expression she wore that suggested she might be middle-aged. Travis recalled the first time he’d seen it, remembered the way it’d hit him, somewhere low down in his gut. The expression of someone who’d lost trust a…
