I wanted him to know that strength wasn’t about being feared.
But perhaps I’d hidden too much.
“I commanded soldiers,” I said.
“How many?”
I smiled faintly.
“Enough.”
He studied my face.
“You were really a Colonel?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Several years.”
“And you fought?”
I hesitated.
“Sometimes.”
His eyes widened.
“Like MMA?”
“No.”
“What then?”
I stood.
“Something very different.”
Before he could ask another question, there was a knock at the door.
Three sharp knocks.
I froze.
Noah looked at me.
“Who is it?”
I walked toward the window.
I didn’t open the door.
Instead, I looked through the curtain.
Grant Whitmore stood on the porch.
His phone was gone.
He was alone.
I opened the door halfway.
“What do you want?”
He looked past me toward Noah.
“Can we talk privately?”
“No.”
His jaw tightened.
“This concerns your son.”
My instincts changed immediately.
