Morgan cried. “I have a weapon!” Gage didn’t move. Beneath the mercury vapor lamp, his shadow stretched across the ground in front of him like a dark crack in the earth. “Morgan.” His low baritone sounded distorted and gruff, as if his voice had pushed her name through the thick night air. “It’s Gage.” “What are you doing here?” He stepped forward and cupped his hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare. Beneath the light, all he could make out was her silhouette standing beside the porch swing. If her weapon of choice was a loaded gun, and it was pointed at him, he hoped she knew what she was doing. “I asked you a question,” she said. “I’m here to beg a favor.” “Well, that’s easy. The answer is no.” “Look,” he said. “I get that you don't want to see me. I understand. More than you know, probably. But I can’t change the past.” “Neither can I. Go away.” “I need—” “I don’t care what you need. Get back in your big black car and drive toward the mountain.
