There’d been a time when he’d smiled at her with warmth, affection, and hunger. There’d been even more times when he’d made her laugh—back in the days when she still could. All of it long gone now, as around them the air went thick with memories.
Maze did not lift her arms in invitation.
And he did not reach for her.
“Maze,” he said simply, and gave her a single curt nod. She got it, but even after all that had happened between them, a small part of her yearned to see that old spark of pure trouble in his eyes, accompanied by that bad-boy smile, the one that promised a thrill and had never failed to deliver. It never got easier to see him, but Cat gestured them in like they were her ducklings for birthdays and holidays and anything else she could think of. Maze pretended to hate being dragged back into their tight circle, but the honest-to-God truth was that she didn’t know what she’d do without them.
Caitlin pulled something from her bag.
A bran muffin.
Walker didn’t do cake—or any junk food, for that matter—never had. He ate to fuel his body, which of course showed, since he looked like a lean, hard-muscled fighting machine. Food wasn’t a pleasure button for him like it was for her. Nope, Walker had other pleasure buttons, ones she sometimes relived in the deep dark of the night.
Taking the muffin, he let out an almost inaudible sound of amusement before turning to stare at the gravestone while slowly, and clearly painfully, lowering himself to the chair.
“What happened to you?” Maze asked him softly.
He shrugged with his good shoulder and took a bite of the muffin.
She turned to look at Heather and Caitlin.
Caitlin looked pained but said nothing.
Heather was biting her lower lip like she was trying to hold back, but finally burst out with “He got shot.” Then she slapped her hand over her mouth.
Maze sucked in air. “Shot? When?”
“Two weeks ago, on the job,” Heather said from between her fingers. “He’s on leave.”
Walker sent Heather a long look, and she tossed up her hands.
“Whatever, Walk. You all know I don’t keep secrets anymore, not for anyone.” She began to chew on her fingernails, painted black and already down to the nubs. She switched to waving a hand in front of her face. “And now I’m sweating.”
Heather, Maze, and Walker had all come from vastly different, but equally troubled, backgrounds by the time they’d landed in the same foster home at ages nine, fifteen, and sixteen, respectively. Caitlin’s parents had welcomed them with open arms for one perfect year, until the Event, which had scattered them all far and wide. Still minors, Heather and Maze had been fostered by new, fairly decent families within a few months of each other. Walker had ended up in a group home, aging out of the system when he turned eighteen. From there, he’d gone into the military and then the FBI. The rigorous discipline had molded him, given him a sense of purpose and a way to channel his demons. It’d toughened and hardened the already toughened, hardened kid.
But Maze knew him better than most, or at least she had. Very few understood that beneath the edgy shell he wore like armor beat a heart that would lay itself down for the people it beat for. Once upon a time, she’d been one of those people.
“The leave is temporary,” Walker said. “I’m going back next week.”
Heather’s eyes filled. “You almost died.”
“But I didn’t.”
Maze’s gut clenched. As kids, they’d all had hopes and visions of what they wanted to be when they grew up. Walker had wanted to run a bar or restaurant. He’d wanted to be surrounded by friends and be able to take care of them by feeding them. Simple dream, really, but it spoke of his deep-seated need to have those few trusted people in his life close to him. That was all that mattered.
He’d ended up going in a very different direction. Maze wasn’t sure why exactly, but her working theory had always been that he figured giving a shit had never gotten him anywhere, so why try.
“You almost died?” she asked softly.
He looked pained as he swallowed the last of his muffin. “I’m fine.”
“But—”
“Drop it, Maze,” he said in a warning tone that she imagined probably had all the bad guys’ balls retreating north.
She opened her mouth to tell him that very thing, but Heather pointed to the carefully tended gravesite and said quietly, “I love the wildflowers you planted last year, Cat, they’re all blooming now.” Ever their peacemaker. At nineteen, Heather was the youngest and therefore remembered the least about that long-ago night. She’d never been able to process bad stuff, and the rest of them always shielded her the best they could.
Caitlin smiled at Heather, but it wasn’t her usual two-hundred-watt. If Heather was the group’s soul, Caitlin was its heart, and she’d been the closest to Michael. His loss had changed her immeasurably, taking her from sweet and fun loving . . . to sweet and completely, unbendingly bossy and tyrannical with those she loved—quite the combo.
“I was out here last week to pull the weeds,” Cat said, “without using Daddy’s tractor.”
Everyone looked at Maze, who sighed. “One time. Jeez. You borrow”—still holding her fork in one hand and the paper plate in the other, she managed to use air quotes for the word borrow—“a guy’s tractor one time, and no one lets you forget it.”
“That’s because thanks to you, it’s now illegal to drive a tractor without a permit in the state of California,” Walker said.
Maze would’ve sworn she’d heard a dry amusement in his tone, but she couldn’t tell past his dark sunglasses. “That’s a total exaggeration. I didn’t even get arrested.” Though his implication that she’d been wild and impulsive wasn’t exactly wrong.
Caitlin smiled and reached out for both Heather’s and Maze’s hands, waiting for Heather to take Walker’s so they were all connected. “Damn. It’s been what, like two months since we were all together for Heather’s birthday? Missed you guys. I love you.”
“I love you too,” Heather said softly.
“Love you,” Walker murmured in his low baritone without a single beat of hesitation.
There was a beat of silence, and when it wasn’t filled, once again everyone looked at Maze.
“Me too,” she said.
Heather shook her head.
Caitlin rolled her eyes.
Walker didn’t react at all.
“What?” Maze said defensively.
“You never say the actual words,” Caitlin said.
“Of course I do.”
“Never,” Heather said.
Fine. She didn’t. But as she’d learned the hard way growing up with an emotionally unavailable mom, no dad, and a few too many foster homes, those three little words held way too much power.
Caitlin eyed her watch and craned her neck to look behind them at the parking lot a good hundred yards back.
“What are you looking for?” Maze asked.
“Mom and Dad should’ve been here by now.”
Maze’s stomach dropped. “You invited them?”
Heather raised her hand. “Actually, that was me. I was checking in with them the other day and I mentioned our annual thing.”