The news anchor continues. “Torres is being held without bail. A victim, Ezekiel Bautista, remains hospitalized at Northwestern Memorial with a severe concussion and is listed in stable condition?—”
Zeke’s alive.The relief hits me so hard I can’t breathe for a second. I’ve been trying not to think about him lying on that rug, the blood pooling beneath his head. We left him there.Ileft him there. All because—because?—
“He’s okay,” Yasmin whispers. “El, he’s okay.”
I just nod, because if I start talking, I’ll start crying.
“Two women were reported leaving the scene, including the apartment resident, Yasmin Kaur. Police are asking for help in finding these women to ensure their safety. All leads can be reported to the CPD hotline at…”
The news anchor moves on to something about traffic on the Kennedy, and Yasmin quickly changes the channel back toSex and the City.
But the white noise doesn’t work anymore. It no longer stops the thoughts.
We go back to sleep for a while. I wake to the sound of Yasmin zipping her duffel bag. The metallic sound cuts through the steady hum of the highway outside.
“We need to move,” she says. “I checked us out for noon, but we should leave earlier. Just in case.”
Just in case Bastian finds us. Just in case Brandon makes bail. Just in case the black sedan pulls into the parking lot.
We’ve been livingjust in casefor a week now.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My bare feet find the scratchy carpet. “Okay. I’ll pack.”
“You want help?” she asks.
“No. I’m good.”
“El, it’s no biggie, I can?—”
“I said I’m good, Yas.”
I hear her hesitate, then move toward the bathroom. The water runs. She’s giving me space, pretending she doesn’t notice how I fumble for things, how my hands search empty air before finding what I’m looking for. I know she thinks she’s doing me a service by trying to take as much as possible off my plate, but I need to fill my time and thoughts withsomethingor else I’ll go insane.
I locate my backpack by the nightstand where I left it and start gathering my things. Not that there’s much to gather—we left Yasmin’s apartment with nothing but the clothes on our backs and whatever cash she had in her purse. Everything I own now fits in one bag: three pairs of underwear from the Target two miles down the road, two shirts, one pair of jeans, assorted toiletries.
And Bastian’s pullover.
My fingers find it wadded at the foot of the bed where I left it this morning. I’ve been sleeping in it every night, though I haven’tlet myself linger on the reasons why. It still smells like him—or maybe I’m imagining that. Maybe I’ve imagined it so hard that my brain has made it real.
The right thing to do, theonlything to do, is to throw it away. Shove it in the trash can by the door and leave it behind with everything else from that life. Hell, I should probably set it on fire just to make sure I don’t have any second thoughts.
Instead, I fold it. Carefully, the way my mother taught me to fold clothes when I was little, before the Dereks and the wine and the slow erosion of everything good in our lives. I do as she showed me. I smooth out the wrinkles, match the sleeves, create neat creases.
Then I stow it at the bottom of my bag.
As I zip the bag closed, I find myself humming. It takes me a moment to recognize the melody—that lullaby Bastian sang to me in the shower.Spi, mladenets moy prekrasny.I don’t know what the words mean, but I know how they sounded in his voice. Like he was singing to someone he’d already lost.
The humming stops as soon as I realize what I’m doing.
“El, you ready?” Yasmin calls from the bathroom.
I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Yeah. I’m ready. Let’s go.”
3
BASTIAN
SIX WEEKS LATER
