By the time I pull into the hospital parking lot, the sky is soft gray, the kind that comes before sunrise. The fluorescent lights outside the emergency wing glare against the dewy pavement. I park crooked between two spaces and don’t bother fixing it.
When I step out, the air is cold enough to make a shiver skitter down my spine. The hospital doors slide open with a sterilehiss, and the scent of antiseptic hits me immediately. My slippers squeak against the polished tile as I make my way down the corridor, past nurses and patients and the distant beep of machines.
Then I see him.
Emilio stands near the nurse’s station, his arm wrapped in a fresh bandage and resting in a sling. His gray t-shirt is stained dark where blood once soaked through, his black jeans scuffed, his hair messy. His expression is tight, a mix of exhaustion and barely contained anger. However, the moment he looks up and sees me, that hard edge softens just a little.
“Hey,” I breathe.
I don’t even realize how fast I move until I’m in his arms. His good arm wraps around me and pulls me close, his body warm and solid against mine. I sink into him, the metallic stench of blood, sweat, and antiseptic cling to him, drowning out the familiar scent of cedarwood and citrus I normally find comfort in.
“You okay?” he murmurs into my hair. His voice is rough, low—half worry, half relief.
“I should be asking you that,” I whisper against his chest.
He pulls back enough to look at me, his golden eyes flicking over my face like he is making sure I am real, that I am actually here. “I’ve had worse,” he says, though his voice doesn’t match the words.
He brushes a thumb along my cheek before letting his hand drop. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”
Outside, the sky has started to pale, streaks of light pushing through the clouds. I lead him toward my Kia, fumbling for my keys, the exhaustion making everything feel slower, heavier. I unlock the doors and slide into the driver’s seat, but before I can start the car, Emilio opens my door.
“Move over,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Emilio, you just got out of the hospital,” I protest.
His gaze darkens—not angry, just that he’s-not-budging look he’s perfected. “Rae. Change seats.”
I hesitate for a second, wanting to fight him on it, but the set of his jaw tells me it isn’t worth it. With a sigh, I climb over the console into the passenger seat, pulling the blanket from the station into my lap. He slides into the driver’s seat and immediately removes his sling, tossing it into my back seat.
“Seriously?” I mutter.
“It’s fucking annoying,” he says, flexing his fingers with a wince before shoving the key into the ignition.
The engine hums to life, and as he backs out of my crooked parking job, his free hand finds mine. His skin is warm, his grip steady—solid, grounding.
“You’ve been staring at those files nonstop for three days, Rae. I think it’s time to step away and come back to the land of the living.”
Emilio’s voice cuts through the quiet, low and edged with concern. I glance up as he walks out of the kitchen, the soft clink of his coffee mug breaking the silence.
After I picked him up from the hospital, he took a detour to my apartment to trade my car for his truck, insisting I wouldn’t need it for a while. He wasn’t planning on letting me out of his sight, and, I didn’t argue. What I didn’t know was that the other reason he wanted his truck was that he had somehow managed to smuggle copies of the case files from each murder for me.
So here I am, three days later, drowning in them.
Every report, every photo, every transcript is spread across his coffee table, overlapping in chaotic layers—a crime scene of its own. Names, dates, autopsy details, time stamps—they blur together until I can barely tell one from the next. Khloe. Liam. Bailey. Alexis. Their faces stare up at me from glossy photos, their smiles frozen in time, their stories ending in blood.
I trace their timelines again and again, my fingertips brushing over the ink like I can will a connection to appear. Something the detectives might’ve missed. Something that explains why this fucker is after me. But the longer I look, the more it all unravels—the details smearing together until all I can see are smudged shadows and the thin, splintered lines in the table’s varnish.
“I can’t,” I murmur, voice rough from disuse. I flip through Khloe’s file for probably the hundredth time and scan the same paragraphs I’ve already memorized. My eyes burn, but I keep flipping through the pages anyway.
Behind me, I hear Emilio sigh. The sound is low, a warning cloaked in patience. “Give me one good reason why you can’t.”
I don’t even look up. “Because you almost got killed, Emilio. Because of me.” The words crack in my throat, raw and sharp, every word laced with guilt. “All four of these people—” I snatch the files up, the paper edges cutting into my skin as I shake them in my hands “—are dead because of me!”
He exhales slowly, the sound dragging out between us. “It’s not your fault that this sick bastard is after you, baby.”
“Yes, it is!” I snap, slamming the files down hard.
The papers scatter across the table, crime scene photos of faces I can’t bear to look at slip loose and land face-up. My trembling fingers gather the pages again, trying to rebuild the order, but it’s useless. Everything’s a mess—on the table, in my chest, and in my damn head.
