Cast checks the room: the stairwell, the window well, the corners behind shelves. He listens. Only the faint wind outside and the tick from a pipe answer.
Vincent looks at Justin’s body and looks away. “We have to leave,” he says.
“We will,” Cast replies. He pulls open a drawer, takes tape and gauze, and peels his shirt back enough to see the gash. It’s shallow and long. He presses the gauze down, tapes it fast, tests his breath. His face doesn’t change.
He goes to the lamp and flips the switch. Yellow light spreads across the floor, illuminating the sprinkle of dust in the air. Justin lies still, one hand open, palm up. Cash covers the concrete around him in loose piles and broken stacks.
Vincent’s gaze catches on the canvas. The bullet hole splits through the top corner like a wound, tearing across the raw paint. The face—mine, half-formed and streaked with wet color—stares back at him. The glint of crimson in the brushstrokes looks too close to real. He freezes, breath faltering, like he hadn’t meant to look, like seeing it costs him something.
“Can you walk?” Cast asks quietly.
“I can try,” I whisper.
The floor sways when I shift my weight. My bare foot meets a scatter of glass, and pain sparks sharp up my leg. I flinch, knees giving before I can stop them. The room tips—metal, bills, the scent of paint and blood all sliding together—and I would’ve gone down if Cast hadn’t reached me first.
His arms come around me in one clean motion. My breath catches against his shoulder, body tensing on instinct before the warmth of him steadies me. He adjusts his hold, one hand beneath my thighs, the other at my back, careful not to jar my wrist. The bandage brushes his collar; I can feel my pulse through it, uneven and fast.
Vincent scans for hazards as he moves, stepping around loose metal and glass, clearing a path to the stairs. He bends once, scoops the biggest spill of cash back into the duffel, zips it, and kicks it out of the way.
Cast’s grip tightens just a little, voice low and even. “I’ve got you.”
He hits the first stair and looks up into the dark hall. “Is anyone else here?” he says.
“Not that I know of,” I shake my head, biting my inner lip.
Cast shifts me in his arms, turning just enough for one last look.
The table lists to one side, one leg cracked, the other sunk into a dark puddle. A box cutter lies near the drain, blade catching the faint light like a warning. A blood-tacked bill clings to the rag I dropped earlier, edges stiff and curling. The rope that bit my wrist has come undone, slumped by the chair leg in a loose coil, the ends stained rose and rough where it tore free.
Vincent lowers his voice. “No one else is here. Let’s move.”
Cast nods. His arms flex around me. My head is against his collarbone. I can hear his pulse—fast, steady.
The hallway ahead is clear. My bare toes slide under the edge of the blanket he pulled from a shelf on the way up. The wool scrapes my ankle. Heat from the nearest vent brushes my calves and then disappears. The front door stands open a hand’s width. Snow’s blown in and gathered on the mat.
“Wait,” I say.
Both of them look at me.
“Where’s Penny?” My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to. “D-did he get her too?”
“No, baby, no.” Cast brushes a piece of hair off of my forehead. “Damien’s with her. She’s okay. She’s coming home from the hospital tomorrow morning.”
My stomach drops.Morning.That means hours have passed. Maybe a whole night. Maybe more. The sterile light, the bandages, the smell of antiseptic—it all blurs as the thought lodges deep and cruel.
“She’s been there?” I manage, my throat tight. “While I was—” The rest dies in my mouth.
Images crowd in: Penny’s curls matted to her forehead, her tiny fingers reaching for mine, the beeping of machines. The idea of her alone in some white room while I was—God, while I washere—makes something in me twist. I should’ve been there. I should’ve protected her. I should’ve done everything differently.
My chest starts to shake. The guilt comes fast, too sharp to swallow.
“Hey.” Cast’s voice cuts through it, low but firm. He shifts me in his arms until I have no choice but to look at him. “She’s fine, Willow.”
I blink, trying to anchor on his face instead of the spiral building behind my ribs.
Vincent steps in closer, his hand brushing my shoulder—a brief, grounding touch. “You don’t need to think about that right now,” he says quietly. “You need to focus on getting home.”
I nod, agreeing with him, even though I don’t feel it.
