Finding Grace by Rhea Rhodan Page B

that had come over Paul’s face.
    He heard a little slur in his own voice when he
turned to his friend and said, “What the fuck is it about Thorne,
anyway? You know, but you won’t say. You want me to protect
him—don’t tell me you don’t—but you won’t tell me why. What is it
about that little fucker? How did he get under your skin?” How
the hell did he get under mine ? “What’s the damn story?”
    Paul’s voice seemed to echo in his head. “You don’t
want to know, Dagger. You think you do, but you don’t. Trust me.”
He patted Dagger’s back. “I appreciate how you defended the kid
tonight, and the rides and all. It’s not fair to you and I know it.
Now get some sleep.”
    * * * *
    Dagger found himself whistling on the way into work
Monday morning, and smiling when the first sound that greeted his
ears was Thorne’s music. It was some classical piece, Russian,
probably. He’d noticed that Thorne seemed to have a thing for the
tortured tragic composers. It wasn’t until Farley smirked that
Dagger even realized he’d been smiling. He stopped and gave Farley
a glare sufficient to remove that smirk, then shrugged and went out
of his way to avoid Thorne the rest of the day.
    But when Thorne showed up in the big office,
blanketed in the old parka and toting his backpack, Dagger realized
he’d been checking his watch, waiting for him. Maybe even looking
forward to seeing him. He pushed the realization away as soon as it
came.
    The ride home was uneventful, except they couldn’t
find Jefferson. Thorne was worried. It was going to be a cold
night. When they reached his door, they were deep in conversation
about what was wrong with the country and how to fix it.
    “Um, wanna come in and help me eat all this food?”
Thorne shifted from foot to foot, looking nervous and strangely
vulnerable. “C’mon, I won’t bite, Peaches. I won’t even touch you.
Scouts’ honor.” Thorne held up two fingers, grinning. “I don’t have
a microwave. What am I gonna do with it? And anyway, we’re not done
making the world safe for democracy.”
    Dagger only hesitated a moment. Hell, it wasn’t like
he had anything better to do.
    So they spent the next hour sitting on Thorne’s
floor, eating Vietnamese and laying out their respective, if
radically different, plans for the world. When they’d finished and
said good-night, Dagger walked back to the Escalade he liked to
drive Thorne home in because it offered a plug-in for both their
iPods. They had turned each other on to some really good music.
    * * * *
    They couldn’t find Jefferson on Thursday, either, so
Thorne decided to invite Jack in again. She’d been fighting the
urge all week and now she had a good excuse. She tried not to let
herself get too excited when he agreed.
    After they’d finished eating, she pulled out her
needles and yarn.
    “What’s up with the knitting, anyway? I mean, it’s
great that you make stuff people can use, but you seem…well, kind
of obsessed.”
    She hoped she could explain it so he’d understand.
“Helps my brain, keeps it from obsessing, actually. Everything
flows more smoothly when I knit. And like I said at the funhouse,
beats basket weaving.” And right now, it’s distracting me from
thinking about you being here all alone with me .
    “So, did your grandma teach you or something?”
    “No, a nurse did, actually. I grew up in foster
homes.” She winced after she’d said it, afraid it was too much
information.
    But Jack just went on. “Know anything about your
parents?”
    What the hell. “Just that my mother forgot to take
care of me when I was a baby. Guess she was crazy or
something.”
    “So it’s hereditary then?” She felt his warm laugh
rumble deep inside her and was glad she’d gone ahead and said it
until he followed it with, “God, Thorne, you answer a question and
two more come up.”
    Thorne shifted and looked back down at her knitting.
“Yeah, I’m a real enigma all right. So are you. I