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arguing with her brother? “And you need to watch Gramps so he doesn’t wander off while we’re out. Truly watch him very closely and call me if he gives you trouble or if he tries to leave.”
    “I think we should just let Gramps go where he wants. Maybe he’s just looking for Dad like the dog is.”
    His words knocked the wind right out of her. For all of five seconds. She didn’t have time to flip out. Sierra swatted her brother on the back of the head. “Thanks for being a jackass.”
    He shrugged. “Truth sucks whether you say it out loud or not.”
    *   *   *
    MIKE SLOUCHED AGAINST the flimsy motel headboard, guitar on his knee. His internal clock was suffering from a kick-ass case of jet lag that left him wide awake at ten in the morning when he’d hoped to sleep the day away. The thin motel walls barely muffled the couple going at it in the room next door.
    Some soldier was getting one helluva welcome home. Sounded like a professional welcome. The dude’s fourth so far.
    The other wall leeched the occasional sound of a baby crying. Mike plucked the strings on his guitar to create a sound barrier against the world. He picked through familiar riffs and ones he’d written himself. He wasn’t good with the words, just the tunes. His beat-up old acoustic had helped him pass a lot of hours overseas.
    His grandmother had encouraged him to play. One of the more honest skills she’d endorsed—definitely more appropriate than using poker to tutor him in math. Although he had to confess, she’d been a formidable gambler. He’d been tossed out of two casinos on suspicion of card counting.
    She’d also taught him to be thrifty, which had worked in her favor when she drained his savings account not long after he’d deployed. She’d said she needed to pay off her car, but when she’d died there wasn’t a car. And he hadn’t even had a chance to say good-bye to the only person who’d taken time to parent him.
    He had no place to go. He’d given up his apartment and put his belongings in storage—not much, some clothes and a wide-screen television. Why accumulate things when he would only have to move them or have them taken away by a relative who needed them more while he was gone?
    A motel suited him fine for now. He preferred his digs to come already furnished. Less mess. Fewer entanglements like roommates or relationships to deal with while he got his head on straight after a long deployment overseas and readied himself for the next. Because there was always a next deployment.
    Hanging out here by himself, he didn’t have to pretend to be nice. Or normal. He was jumpy and empty. Every sound had him resisting the urge to hit the deck or punch a wall. Some called it battle stress. He didn’t care about naming it, just getting through it.
    After he’d locked himself in the room, he’d emptied his weapon and stowed his ammo to be sure he didn’t accidentally draw on a pizza delivery guy who honked his horn or a family on vacation in a car that backfired. God forbid anyone set off fireworks. He’d be flipping a table on its side to make a barricade before anyone could shout, “Happy Flag Day.”
    Mike set his guitar aside and leaned forward to tear off another piece of pizza—topped with loads of meat. He popped open a lukewarm soda. He’d emptied a couple of longnecks last night for his own welcome home party with some late show that made pop culture references he’d lost track of while overseas.
    A scratch, scratch, scratch echoed outside.
    He stopped chewing. Probably just something brushing against the door. Chill. Out. He bit off more pizza and forced himself to chew extra times so he wouldn’t choke due to the panic constricting his throat.
    The scratch, scratch, scratch continued, definitely against the door. What the hell? He tossed the pizza crust back in the box. He reached for his 9mm—
    Shit.
    It took every ounce of restraint to move his hand away and walk to the door like a normal