Harpo crept from the trees to the shrubs. Ayala was sitting on the dock, kicking like a kid in a bathtub. Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks were red, and she looked softer this morning. He stepped lightly onto the dock. To talk only. No funny stuff. He was here to find a love letter, that was all, find it and get rid of it to protect Sam, and Ayala would forget about this other man given time, just like he’d forget about his feelings for Ayala.
Abruptly, Ayala stopped splashing. “Of all the prophets,” she said, “Elijah is my favourite.”
Harpo froze. Had she heard him? She couldn’t have. He hadn’t made a sound. There was that old fear, though, the insecurity that comes from sharing a room with four brothers, that people could read his thoughts. “I’m sorry I broke your house,” he said.
