Freddie

A heavy, almost tangible silence hung in the garage, broken only by the steady ticking of the old clock on the wall. Freddie stood in the middle of the room, clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles were white. Fury still seethed within him—a residual echo of his recent altercation with Cook.

Cook, as always, was insufferable. His stubbornness, his constant tendency to ask for trouble and consider himself the center of the universe—all of it infuriated Freddie. And JJ, true to his habit of always taking Cook's side, only added fuel to the fire with a few caustic remarks that struck a nerve.

Now he felt like an outcast in his own company.

Freddie glanced at the sofa. There, curled up under an old blanket, a girl was sleeping. She looked so serene that it contrasted with his inner...

"Damn!" he whispered, his voice ringing out too loudly in the empty room. "You're the spitting image of Cook. Just a female version."