The big guy’s head whipped up, and he studied her as Shane made for the fridge.

Softening her touch, Becca palpitated the edge of the scar tissue. Nick sucked in a breath through his nose, and his muscles flinched and clenched.

“What happened here?”

“Gunshot wounds times two, one penetrating, one not. Fractured pelvis and perforated bowel that healed. Lingering nerve damage,” he said as if by rote. And she guessed it was. “It’ll be okay.”

She nodded, swallowing down the heartache and stream of comments that might embarrass him in front of his guys. You don’t look okay. You can’t even take a deep breath. I’m so sorry you got hurt. And, geez, not just hurt. That litany of injuries would’ve required multiple surgeries, a lot of pain, and a difficult rehabilitation. “Just gonna clean up your face.” At the sink, she scrubbed her hands thoroughly.

Shane found a plastic bag, filled it with ice, and tossed it to Beckett, who caught it in the hand that hadn’t had a head-on collision with a steel box.

The older man returned with a white metal kit in hand. “Found it,” he said.

Drying her hands, she gestured to the bar. Miguel set it down and opened it for her. “Thanks,” she said. “Are you Miguel?” Average height, he was a bit full in the middle, with graying dark hair and warm-toned skin.

“Yeah. I’m sure sorry about this whole situation, Becca,” he said, a kindness about him that drew her in.

If Nick trusted the man, so did she. “Me, too. But I appreciate that you helped Nick today.”

Unexpectedly, Shane stepped up and laid out everything she’d need—gauze, alcohol wipes, and a few packages of Steri-Strips. He opened a package of gloves for her and held it out. “Thanks,” she said, donning the gloves and appreciating that his actions allowed her to keep her hands sterile. Way he was looking between the supplies and Nick’s blood, it was like he wanted to help.

As she got to work, the weight of everyone’s observation pressed in on her, but she couldn’t think of them right now, or how badly she wanted to take a few heads off—Beckett’s, because he’d hurt Nick, and the others’, because they hadn’t done anything to intervene. Which was just as bad in her book.

In front of Nick again, she held his handsome, tired face with one hand while she cleaned it with the other. His gaze lit on her face, and she knew he was watching her work, but she kept her eyes on the task at hand.

She hadn’t really expected to say the words when they started coming out, but once they began, she felt their rightness down deep. “Nick asked you guys here as a favor to me. He apparently did so knowing some sort of tension existed between you. Had I known this would be the cost to him, I would’ve insisted he tell you not to come.” She opened the alcohol wipes and slipped them from their sleeves. “Gonna sting.” Her gaze flickered to his eyes, which bored into hers with blazing intensity.

He didn’t react to the application of the alcohol.

Once it was clean and dry, Becca gently pulled the split skin together and applied the butterflies. Seething, she shook her head. “I don’t know what the problem is between all of you. That’s your business. But my brother’s safety? That’s my business. So if you guys can’t keep your shit together, then feel free to go. Because we need more of this like we need more holes in our heads.” She pressed two strips over the ends of the three holding the wound closed. “There.” Ripping off her gloves, she stepped away.

Nick grasped her arm, the thank you clear in his expression.

She nodded and crossed to the sink to wash her hands again. On a long sigh, she turned in search of the trash can. “Hey, Nick, where’s the . . .”

As she approached the breakfast bar, something in the middle of the granite captured her attention. With all the excitement of the fight, she’d been entirely focused on Nick. But now . . . She stepped closer.

“Becca.”

Time slowed to a crawl, and her gaze became laser-focused. She reached out, her hand passing over a bagged black knife to a second bag. Cold prickles broke out over her skin.

Nick whipped off the stool. “Becca, don’t.”

But her fingers were already on the plastic, grasping it, lifting it. Her stomach rolled viciously.

A severed pinkie finger sat within. At one point, it had been broken at the middle knuckle and had healed badly, creating a hooked shape to the digit. Becca knew exactly when that had happened. They’d been building a tree house in the backyard with their dad. Scott had been hammering and had missed, finding nine-year-old Charlie’s pinkie instead of the head of the nail. Afterward, Charlie kept taking the splint off, and the joint had healed crooked.

The fingernail was missing. The edge of the amputation was jagged.

Oh, God, they’re torturing him, maiming him.

In a blinding flash, Becca’s blood pressure bottomed out and a tingly sweat covered her skin. She dropped the bag and clamped her lips together, hoping to hold back the surging vomit long enough to—

The trash can appeared in front of her. Becca stomped on the pedal to raise the lid, bent over, threw up everything she’d eaten for the past ten days. Or, at least, that’s what it felt like. Long after her stomach had expelled its contents, she continued to heave until tears streamed down her face and she gasped for breath. Someone held her hair. A hand rubbed her back.

She gagged and shuddered as the dry heaves eased, her muscles no more than wrung-out dishrags, her head and body aches roaring back with a vengeance. Wet paper towels appeared in her peripheral vision, and she used them to wipe her mouth and cool her brow and cheeks.

Joining her abject terror over Charlie were new emotions—embarrassment and humiliation. I just threw up in front of Nick, in front of four war-hardened ex-Green Berets. Shit, shit, shit.

Becca forced herself into a standing position, one that revealed that, of all people, hard-ass Beckett had been holding her hair while Nick had been rubbing her back. Equilibrium eluding her, she sagged against the row of cabinets behind her and pressed her hands to her mouth. “Sorry,” she whispered.

“Nothing to apologize for, Becca,” Miguel said. Low murmurs of agreement echoed the sentiment.

With bleary eyes, she watched Beckett pull the trash can away and knot the bag.

“So,” Miguel said in a careful voice, “does your reaction mean you recognize it as your brother’s?”

She nodded and accepted a glass of water from Shane. “Thanks,” she said, and took a few small sips. “I’d know that crooked knuckle anywhere.” Her brain was an absolute whirlwind of when, where, who, and what, but one question rooted itself deep. She dragged her gaze away from the baggy, refusing to let herself imagine for a single second how much pain Charlie must’ve experienced, and glared at Nick. “How long have you had this?” she asked, voice raspy, throat sore.

His expression was an ashen mask of Oh, shit. “Bec—”

She thrust out her finger toward the bar. “How long have you known about this? Oh, my God, did you find this at my house before you came to the hospital? Is that why you were so upset when you called me?” A knot of emotion lodged in her raw throat. That was hours ago. For hours he’d let her kiss him and joke about the puppy’s name and nap on the couch and talk tattoos with Jeremy while he’d sat on the information that someone had chopped off Charlie’s freaking finger? Rising hysteria made her jittery, and then a boomerang of delayed reaction clotheslined her, making her light-headed.

“No. I didn’t know until a few minutes ago. I swear.” Sincerity rang through his words as Nick slipped the glass from her hand, grasped her arms, and forced her to turn toward him. “Miguel found it after I left to come get you.”

Miguel nodded. “It’s the truth, Becca. I’m sorry I didn’t get over here sooner to fill you in. I wasn’t comfortable fleshing out the details over the phone, not with everything . . .”

“Meaning what?” she asked.

Nick’s hands slid up and cupped the sides of her neck. “We think the police are dirty. None of the reports you filed exist, and neither do the records of your nine-one-one calls.”

The room went a little spinny around her. “What? How is that possible?”

“We don’t know. But everyone’s on board to find out,” Nick said, gesturing to the assembled group.

She nodded, the baggy drawing her gaze against her will. “Does this mean Charlie’s dead?” she said, her voice breathy and high. At the very least, it definitely meant he’d been kidnapped, not just run away.

“Not necessarily.” Nick gently squeezed her muscles. “But we don’t know. There was no note, no instruction, no ransom demand. Miguel found it on your desk with the knife. That’s all we know for sure. Don’t assume the worst.” His big hand cupped her cheek and he leaned in. “If it helps at all, where Charlie’s investigation or our plans are concerned, I promise I won’t keep anything from you.”

“Thank you. And I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.” She blew out a shaky breath. “I far prefer to handle things head-on rather than not know and get blindsided.” She waved her hand toward the counter. “Puking aside, I’m not fragile. I’m not going to break. I deal with blood and guts and crisis and tragedy every day of my life. I can handle this.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute, Becca.” Eyes blazing with emotion she didn’t dare guess at, Nick seemed to be looking into her very soul, judging her strength, evaluating her mettle.

She held his gaze for a long moment, letting him look his fill. “Good. Then, what’s the plan?”