Chapter 11

She was about eighteen, he thought. Dark hair cropped close around her face, brown eyes, unremarkable height. Dressed in jeans and a slightly too small man’s sweater. Unremarkable in all ways, except she was in his barn. And she was thin and a bit grubby.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

She eyed him as nervously as she’d just been looking at the dogs.

“I needed somewhere to sleep,” she said. “It was cold last night.” She paused. “And the night before.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And the night before that?”

She bit her lip and looked at the floor. Yes, then, he thought to himself. A while, probably. Why had the dogs only noticed now?

Fly was watching her, head tilted to one side, tail wagging cautiously. A good judge of character, was Fly.

“Do you want some breakfast?” he asked, surprising himself. “I was cooking eggs.”

Her eyes flickered between the stick and his gammy hand, assessing whether he was a threat. She wasn’t sure.

She shook her head.