Ellie emerges from the diner carrying a large thermos and a stack of paper cups. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and flour dusts her jeans—she must've been baking when the shooting started. She stands outside the diner by the table set up earlier this evening, now righted again after the fight, and pours coffee into cups.
"Coffee's fresh," she calls out. "And I've got sandwiches inside if anyone's hungry."
The state patrol officers accept gratefully and one by one, they begin moving that way. One of them asks Ellie about setting up a command post, and she directs him to the back room of the diner without missing a beat.
The town's in good hands, and Sloane needs to get out of here before the questions start multiplying. Turning to Varen, I ask, "Can I borrow your car?"
He pulls the keys from his pocket and tosses them to me without hesitation. "Bring it back when you're ready. No rush."
"Thanks."
"Take care of her," he says, nodding toward Sloane. "And yourself. I'll handle things here tonight. You can come give your statement tomorrow once she's settled."
I head to the bench where Sloane sits and crouch in front of Sloane. Her eyes rise slowly to look at me and I can see how exhausted she is. It isn't likely she'll sleep tonight, but I have to get her to try. "Let's get you home."
"Home?" she says softly, rising slowly. The blanket falls from her shoulders, and I catch it before it hits the ground. I drape it back around her and keep one arm supporting her as we walk to Varen's sedan parked at the edge of the square.
Sloane stares out the window at the dark woods the entire way to the cabin. I know some of what she's feeling—the utter disgust for humanity, fear over what she's seen and done, and probably most of all, some shock or horror over what she did. I wish she'd feel up to talking about it and opening up, but I'm not going to push her. She'll let it out when she's ready.
The cabin comes into view, and my chest tightens at the sight of it. The windows are boarded up, probably after they hauled the sheriff off in an ambulance. It might've been Varen or one of the other men in town, and the gesture actually makes me speechless. I still can't believe what this town will do for someone who never wanted to be here or assimilate.
Sloane, however, doesn’t seem to notice much of anything. She's still silent and still staring into space when I park the car and round the front to open her door. I help her to her feet, this time leaving the blanket on the cold ground as I walk her to the house, past my truck. The tires have been shot out and the stench of gasoline permeates the soil nearby too.
When we're inside, I help her take off the coat she borrowed from Ellie, which has Cal's blood on it now, and Ellie might not want it back. Then I wrestle her out of the vest that saved her life without stopping to look for the slug that would've ended her. I'm sure that'll come too.
"Hey," I tell her as I cup both of her cheeks. Her eyes drift lazily up to meet mine. She looks drugged. " Go get in the shower. I'll start a fire and get some food ready."
She doesn't argue. She disappears into the bathroom, and a moment later, I hear the water running. I move through the cabin on autopilot, building a fire in the fireplace, pulling out the frozen stew from the freezer and heating it on the stove. My hands are steady because I've done this sort of thing too many times to get freaked out by it, but my mind is racing. I don't know how to help her. It might well be the one thing I can't do for her.
That makes me feel somewhat helpless, even more so than the night we were stranded on the mountain with no shelter or heatand Sloane came to the rescue. But this time, there isn’t anything anyone can do other than ride out the waves of thoughts that will try to drown her and make her feel guilt unlike anything she's felt before.
Sloane drove a knife into Cal Maddox's ribcage, and there's no way of knowing now if it would've been a fatal blow. For all I know, the job was done and my bullets were overkill. But we'll never know. Sloane will only ever think that she did that, and there will be no way for me to convince her differently.
She's saved lives. Hell, it's what she does for a living. And taking a life probably wasn't something she ever thought she'd do. That mental trauma is enough to put anyone in a state of utter shock and existential crisis.
That kind of shift breaks people. I've seen it happen to soldiers, to rookies in the Mafia who thought they could handle it until they pulled the trigger and realized they couldn't.
But Sloane's not fragile. She's resilient. She's survived everything Cal threw at her, and she'll survive this too. I just need to make sure she doesn't have to do it alone.
The water shuts off as I'm ladling stew into two bowls for both of us. I head into the bathroom to check on her when she takes longer than I think it should be. Steam pours out when I open the door, and Sloane stands wrapped in a towel, her now-dark hair dripping onto her shoulders leaving trails of hair dye that's washed out across her creamy skin.
"Food's ready," I say.
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat anyway," I tell her at the risk of sounding like her father. God knows I'm almost old enough to be, but I don't want her to think I'm smothering her.
She nods, though I'm not sure she really heard me. I guide her to the bedroom and help her into clean clothes—one of my shirts and a pair of soft pants. Her movements are jerky and almost robotic. She's just a shell of the woman she normally is.
When we return to the kitchen, the fire has finally started warming the cabin and the scent of stew makes my mouth water. Seeing her reaction makes me feel like a monster for not being more torn up over killing those bastards, but I'm numb to the violence now. It's something I hope never happens to her.
"It's okay," I murmur, pressing my lips to her hair as I sit and she climbs on my lap. "You're okay."
"I killed him," she whispers. "I stabbed him, and I?—"
"Look, baby, you had no choice, and you don't know that you killed him. It might've been my bullets. I'd never have let him hurt you." Her hair dampens my shirt, but I cling to her, letting her know by my strong grasp that I'm never letting go.
"I know." Her voice breaks. "I know that. But it doesn't change what I did. I'm a nurse, Dane. I'm supposed to save lives, not take them."
