She wore a faded blue jacket much too thin for the chilly wind outside. Her dark hair hung loose and uneven, as if cut at home with dull scissors. Her shoes were scuffed nearly white at the toes. She didn’t look frightened exactly.
She looked determined.
That was what made the room go still.
She paused just inside the doorway, one hand still near the glass, then lifted her chin and searched the diner with grave, careful eyes. The waitress, Mabel, opened her mouth to greet her, but the girl never looked her way.
Instead, she stared straight at the corner booth.
Then she began to walk.
She should have been terrified of him.
Step by step, she crossed the entire diner alone.
The room quieted around her in pieces. A conversation at the counter died. Someone lowered a newspaper. Mabel stopped with a coffeepot in her hand. Even the cook leaned out through the service window.
The child stopped beside Ronan.
Her gaze dropped to the raven tattoo on his forearm.
She lifted one finger and pointed.
“My dad had that same mark,” she said.
No one moved.
Ronan looked down at her, then at his arm, then back at her face. “A lot of men have birds tattooed on them, sweetheart.”
She shook her head once. “Not this one.”
There was no hesitation in her voice.
No guessing.
Recognition.
A cold sensation crawled up Luis’s spine. Dean slowly set his mug down. Mack’s smile vanished.