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revealing powerful forearms with tattoos much more crudely drawn than the one I’d glimpsed on his back, probably obtained while in prison. His dark eyes revealed little emotion, but something told me he was working hard to present a bland, non-threatening appearance.
    It wasn’t working.
    I moved away, putting the boxes of books between us. I couldn’t help watching closely for any sign of imminent assault, even as I felt foolish for doing it. I was simply unable to get past his resemblance to a photo straight out of central casting filed under “homicidal maniac.”
    He started to take a step through the doorway, then paused mid-stride. He looked at me, seeming to ask permission. After a moment, I nodded, and he entered, stopping only a few feet into the room. A safe distance, I thought. My anxiety backed down enough to allow me to breathe.
    He started to speak, then hesitated, swallowed, cleared his throat, and said, “I’m Quinn. Josh asked me to come by?” He knew I was aware of his identity. This was a formality, a parody of normal social convention of a now bygone time.
    “Uh…I’m Ellen,” I said, though he knew perfectly well who I was too.
    Should I shake his hand? That’s what polite people would’ve done, before. But this wasn’t that time anymore, and no way in hell was I shaking his hand. I’d be more likely to invite him to sit in the sun room and have tea and cookies. If I had a sun room. Or tea. Or cookies.
    I shook my head to clear my thoughts and realized he was speaking. “Are these the books Josh asked me about?” He gestured to the boxes at my feet. “I had a couple of training classes while I was locked up, so I should be able to tell you which ones will help people learn, and which ones are more advanced.”
    His voice was softer than I’d expected, with a subtle hint that he might at one time have lived farther south than Kentucky. “Yes, um, those and one more box in Josh’s office. He was looking through it last night.” Damn. I sounded like I’d been inhaling helium.
    He studied me for a moment, then to my relief he moved away, clearing a space on the worktable against the wall. He moved the boxes and started sorting the books into piles on the table. I went to retrieve the other box, waking both dogs from a nap in the process. They followed me back to where Quinn was working, their keen canine gazes studying him intently. Seeming to make some sort of decision, they settled to the floor beside the table. In between placing books on one pile or another, Quinn dropped his hand to stroke one of the dog’s heads, or ruffle an ear. They were calm and relaxed in his company, and while I’d long advocated trusting a dog’s opinion of people, I couldn’t bring myself to do so in this instance.
    After so much time spent here, though, I’d become protective of the dogs. I felt almost like an aunt, proud and a little possessive. “That’s Bigby,” I said, indicating the beautiful golden retriever mix currently on his back, waving all four legs in the air, begging for a belly rub. “And that’s Rowdy.” The smaller Border collie was working his way under Quinn’s elbow, intent on shifting his hand into prime petting position and stealing his attention from Bigby.
    He murmured softly to the dogs, his voice gaining volume little by little. Soon, I realized he was speaking to me, as much as to the dogs at his feet. “I had a dog growing up. He was a lab mix named Bogart. Man, I loved that dog, but he died while I was in jail.” He looked in my direction, not quite meeting my eyes, as if afraid I’d bolt. “It was all so stupid. I was stupid. Everything I knew about cars, stealing them was easy, and not much risk. But when the guys wanted to break into some houses, I should’ve stayed out of it. They said no worries, the family won’t be home, and we aren’t going to carry any guns. Except the family was home, and Dale had his brother’s Glock in his jacket pocket, and he