But she already is.
Her hands shake harder, her breathing quick and shallow.
I take a step toward her. “Marlowe.”
She turns fast. And then she crashes into me. Hard. It knocks the breath out of me, but I catch her. My arms wrap around her without thinking. Her fists land once, maybe twice, against my chest, but it’s not meant to hurt. She’s coming undone.
And fuck me, I feel it. Every bit of her rage, her panic, her grief. It spills out and shoves straight into mine.
“I can’t,” she gasps. Her voice is wrecked. “He lied.”
I press my hand to the back of her head, pull her in tighter. My fingers grip her hair, my other hand holding the small of her back. I want to crush something. I want to burn this whole place to the ground.
Her face buries into my shirt, her hands clenching my sides like I’m the only solid thing she has left. And fuck if that doesn’t crack something deep inside me.
“I thought this time…” Her voice shakes. “I really thought he was telling the truth.”
I hold her tighter. “He wasn’t.”
“I fucking hate him.” She chokes on the words and stumbles toward the sink, gripping the counter as her stomach heaves. Her body convulses, her breath snagging as she vomits, her fingers slipping against the metal of the sink.
I stand there, watching her fall apart, the sharp scent of sweat and sickness filling the air.
Her shoulders shake. Her knees buckle. She presses her forehead against the counter, the deck of cards bent and crushed in her fist.
She really thought the money would be here.
She thought her father wouldn’t send her to die.
And I don’t know if that makes me angrier. Or if it makes mesick.
Her hair clings to her face, her lips parted like she can’t pull in enough air, like her body is fighting against her own disbelief.
“Go wash your face,” I say, my voice rough, too sharp.
She doesn’t look at me, doesn’t move right away. Then, slowly, she pushes off the counter and drags herself toward the small bathroom at the end of the trailer. The door creaks closed behind her.
I brace my hands against the counter, my pulse heavy, pounding in my ears. A thousand thoughts slam into each other, breaking apart before I can grab hold of them.
I’m screwed if I don’t find that money.
Marlowe knew. She had to.
Fuck. Unless she didn’t.
I shake my head, forcing the thought out. Doesn’t matter. She’s as deep in this as I am now.
The faucet runs, water hitting porcelain and filling the quiet. I press my fingers into my temples, breathing in slowly, trying to shove the anger back into something manageable. The water shuts off, and the door creaks open. I look up. She stands there, pale, hollowed out in a way I haven’t seen a person look before. The fight is gone. Whatever held her together before is slipping.
“Get back in the truck,” I say.
She nods, a small, lifeless movement, and walks past me. She steps out of the trailer and climbs into the SUV without a word.
I follow close. Just in case she tries to run.
Her fingers rest in her lap, trembling with a slight, involuntary shake. A tear slips down her cheek, then another. She doesn’t wipe them away. Hell, this makes me uncomfortable. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know if I should say anything at all, so I keep quiet and drive back.
She stares straight ahead, silent, hands clasped together like she’s trying tokeep herself from falling apart. The second I pull in front of Mom’s house, Bridger steps outside, his eyesnarrowing as he takes us in. His gaze flicks from me to Marlowe, who still hasn’t moved, hasn’t spoken, her hands still trembling against her lap.
