The Departed

in his eyes was anger. The boy was pissed and trying not to show it.
    Then he followed in Dez’s footsteps and gave the boy his back, trailing along after her.
    “You try not to worry too much about your friend. Considering how he managed to pull through the night, I wouldn’t be surprised if he made it through the day,” Taylor said. He’d hang around a few more minutes, though. He wasn’t leaving that kid alone with Beau. He smiled at Brendan and added in parting, “I think I’ll have a word with the nurse before I leave.”
    There…give the little asshole something to think about, and hopefully make Beau a little safer as well. Tiffany, too. As of yet, Taylor still wasn’t here in any official capacity. He might have had a contract for Dez that he could whip out if he had needed to keep her out of trouble, but there wasn’t anything yet to justify calling in his unit. Still, he didn’t need to be here officially to make people uncomfortable.
    Make them worry.
    He made his way over to the nurse’s station, staying in full view of the open door…in full view of Brendan as he slid back into the room.
    The boy’s eyes slid his way and then darted back to the still form on the bed. He was involved in this shit—it was all but written on his forehead.
    Taylor would focus on that matter for now, and only that matter, because if he tried to split his attention between this and the bombshell Dez had dropped on him earlier, he would lose his fucking mind.
    Even though, he realized, in some part of his soul, he’d already known this was going to happen. From the time he’d heard Dez was in his town, he’d known. Should have tried harder to get her out, he thought. But even thinking that filled him with shame. She could lay Anna to rest. Even if he had to live with the horror of knowing, Dez’s continued presence here had something to do with Anna…and that meant Anna couldn’t rest. And Ivy O’Malley lived because of Dez’s arrival in town.
    He was such a fucking coward.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
    “BEAU’S mom doesn’t seem at all surprised by what happened,” Taylor said as he and Dez sat in the hospital cafeteria over bottled juice and coffee.
    “He’s gotten in trouble before,” she said.
    Lifting a brow, Taylor waited.
    “I talked to Tiffany. Beau’s not exactly known for being an exemplary kid. Drinking, fighting. He was well on his road to screwing up his scholarships for a while, and then things got better for a while. After her brother kicked his ass. Sounds like Tristan offered an olive branch and the two of them became friends of a sort. He straightened up for a while. But then Tristan died and things got worse. He’s drinking again, wilder.” She lowered her gaze to the apple juice he’d pushed on her—his bribe of coffee was still out of her reach, but she was drinking it because she knew under that hard-nosed line he’d drawn, he was only doing it because he was worried. And he was worried. She could feel it. It was kind of…well, weird having somebody worry about her like that. Worry enough to do something that would piss her off.
    Nobody else had ever really cared enough.
    “I need to get inside Brendan’s house,” she said softly, shifting her focus away from Beau and back to what had happened outside his room earlier. She lifted the juice to her mouth and polished it off. Then she slammed it down and demanded, “Give me my coffee.”
    “Why do you need to get inside his house?” He continued to hold her coffee hostage, tapping a finger on the side of the cup, staring at her with grim eyes.
    “I just do. Give me my coffee.”
    “Dez…you’re a pain in the ass.” He pushed it over to her and leaned back in the chair, his arms folded across his chest.
    The first sip of caffeine was both wretched and wonderful—hospital coffee was usually lousy, and this was. But it was strong, and hot, and Taylor had added enough cream and sugar to make it tolerable. As it burned its way down her throat, she studied him from under her lashes—the way the cotton shirt clung to the leanly sculpted muscles of his arms and shoulders, the way he stared down at the table, gold-tipped eyelashes shielding his gaze from her view.
    And the strain on his face. He was tired. He never really looked tired, but he did now. Tired, and sad. Grieving, she knew. Why wouldn’t he be?
    Abruptly, she set her coffee down and leaned forward, straining to place one hand on his. “Are you