Malcolm “Mack” Rourke lifted his head from the workbench where he’d been wiping grease from his palms. He had been idly rolling a bolt between his fingers when he noticed her standing in the doorway.
A little girl.
She was so slight the sunlight behind her nearly washed her out. Her wheat-colored hair clung to her forehead with sweat. Her dress—once lavender—was creased and smudged, as if she had slept in it, as if she had been holding herself together for days and had finally run out of strength.
One sock sagged around her ankle. The other was gone.
Her expression was eerily calm in the way children look when they’ve exhausted all their tears.
She attempted a step forward.
Her left leg failed to follow properly.
She flinched, then continued anyway, pulling one foot along the concrete as though she didn’t trust herself to stop.
Mack didn’t rush. He didn’t want to frighten her. Instead, he lowered himself into a slow crouch, hands open, eyes meeting hers.
“Hey there,” he said gently. “You’re safe in here. What’s your name?”
The girl swallowed, as though even answering might cause trouble.
“Lila,” she whispered. “Lila Harper.”
Behind Mack, the garage fell silent. Even the radio suddenly seemed too loud.
A tall man with observant eyes stepped closer, careful not to crowd her, simply studying the way she favored one side. Jonah “Doc” Sutter wasn’t a licensed doctor, but he had spent years as a field medic before learning to rebuild carburetors, and his hands carried that same steady calm.
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