“Don’t call her that,” I snap before I can stop myself.
One of her eyebrows ticks up. “Saved the woman you love, then,” she amends calmly.
The words hang in the frozen air between us. I don’t argue.
Sirens swell louder, bouncing off brick. Blue and red lights strobe at the end of the alley as the ambulance noses in carefully, tires crunching over broken glass and fallen stock.
Maris glances toward the street, then back at me. “They’re gonna want you in the rig with her.”
“Jack?” I ask.
“Still in pursuit,” she says. “He’ll update when he’s got something. Right now your job is her.”
EMTs spill out of the back of the ambulance with a stretcher, moving fast, efficient. They start firing questions—what happened, what she might’ve been exposed to, how long she’s been out.
“Abduction attempt,” I say. “Single jab to the neck, unknown substance, under five minutes unconscious. Pulse rapid, respirations shallow but steady. Prior trauma history, but nothing acute besides the drug.”
They get her onto the stretcher. She stirs once, a soft sound like a protest, fingers twitching against the blanket.
“I’m here,” I tell her, leaning in close so if any part of her is near the surface, she’ll hear it. “I’m right here. I’m not lettin’ go, you hear me?”
Her lashes flutter again, just a flicker.
I take that as a yes.
As they wheel her toward the open ambulance doors, I catch one last glimpse of the alley—the smeared tire marks, the scuffed footprint where Henry almost dropped her, the place where I stood and chose the wrong shot and the right girl.
He got close enough to touch her.
Close enough to carry her.
And he still didn’t manage to keep her.
I climb into the back of the ambulance and take her hand in mine, big palm wrapping around her smaller fingers.
One thought burns through the fear and the fury and the bone-deep relief.
If Henry Thurston wants to chase her, he can run as long and as hard as he wants.
I’ll be right here.
Every. Single. Time.
THIRTY-ONE
TWIGGY
Wakingupfeelslikesurfacing through syrup.
Everything is too bright and too white, and my tongue tastes like chemical and cotton and fear.
For a second, I don’t know where I am.
Then I hear it, a steady, low murmur near my ear. A familiar Irish rasp, worn hoarse.
“—you’re okay, Tally-girl. Come on back. That’s it. You’re just bein’ dramatic now.”
I know that voice. I chase it.
