Because he didn’t come home.
Healwayscomes home.
But he went out last night, and he didn’t come back.
I’ve called in every favor we have. Half the city is out tonight, searching for Adam Lidell. The police aren’t interested in whatthey see as a gang rat disappearance, and Adam would kill me himself if I brought more eyes on us.
So I’ll keep searching.
My lips feel numb, water soaking down the collar of my jacket as I glance down the next alley with a frown. I lift my hand to cover my eyes from the rain, trying to make out any movement, any clue.
I can’t see in the weather. It’s too dark, too wet.
I glance over my shoulder. My hand slips down to the holster inside my jacket, and I slide out the gun.
Just in case.
I can’t hear my own footsteps as I make my way down that narrow path. Giant dumpsters from the shitty club pulsing dance music next to us block my way, and I shove them aside, tossing the bags that have been left to rot out of the way and grimacing at the muck that coats my hands.
I pause to wipe them on my ruined trousers.
He’s not here.
Empty. This one is empty, just like all the rest.
I give a cursory glance at the pile of bags against the wall. Only the thinnest strip of light from the emergency exit beside us illuminates it, leaving shadows and phantoms behind.
I nearly miss it. Nearly miss the hand that twitches, the tips tinged blue despite the red tint of the light.
My gun clatters to the floor, skittering away from me.
It’s not him.
That’s what I tell myself as I rip the trash away, bags spilling open and covering me with rotting garbage as I throw them aside.
It’s not him.
Horrific enough, for one of the fucking unfortunate souls who have the bad luck to live on the streets of this city, but it’s not my Adam.
Not Adam.
Not—
His face is ashen; blue, bloodless, crusted lips parting as he blinks at me hazily. They move, twist, as I push the final bag off his chest, a ragged, raw cry ripping from my throat.
He’s alive.
He’s alive.
“Adam.” I’m panting, on my knees, pulling him into me. His head lolls against my lap, blond curls plastered against his skull. His pulse feels barely there beneath my fingers, long moments ticking past between sluggish thumps. “Adam!”
I stare in horror at the foam that appears at his mouth, brushing it away as if it might change anything. As if it might stop what I know is happening, no matter how I wish it were otherwise.
Because I’ve seen it before.
My eyes travel down. The needle is still in his arm.
“Damn you.” I grip his shoulders, shaking him. “You fucking idiot. You promised me!”
