He doesn’t argue again.He turns and walks out of the room without another word.
I go upstairs and check my phone for the tenth time in an hour.Nothing.
I sit on the edge of the bed on the side she sleeps, elbows on my knees, staring at the invisible imprint her body left in the mattress.I should be going over all the shit I got off that guy's computer with Adrian.
But I can’t focus.I can barely think.I keep hearing her voice.
You are my husband, Cassius, and I’m not afraid.
Liar.
I deserve the lie.I made her believe this could work, that I could keep her safe, sane, whole.
I drag a hand down my face, grab my jacket, and shrug it on.I need to move.Clear my head.Maybe the air will take the edge off the ache in my chest.
The Vegas night consumes me the second I step outside.Streetlights hum faintly overhead, throwing weak gold across the cracked asphalt.Somewhere down the block, neon signs pulse in pink and blue, casting a glow on the parked cars.A couple is laughing as they pass, their footsteps quick against the sidewalk.
It’s the kind of night she would’ve liked.It’s cool and the stars are barely visible past the haze of the Strip, the city breathing with a slow, restless heartbeat.I can almost hear her pointing out some constellations I’ve never cared enough to learn the names of, but when she says them they become important.
I take the back exit through the garage, hands deep in my pockets.The streets are too quiet.No shouting from the corner taco stand, no laughter bleeding off the Strip.Heat should be lifting off the asphalt; instead the air goes thin and cold.In the glass of a dark storefront, a brim tips where my reflection has no hat.
There, where a reflection shouldn’t be, are eyes on my shoulder, two fingers raised like a count.Then he’s gone, the window empty, the night ordinary again.
I square my shoulders, knife-hand loose, and keep walking.I’m halfway down the block when the boots come fast—too even for drunks, too coordinated for tourists.Two pairs of boots.
I pivot left, instincts firing, but not fast enough.
A hard blow clips the side of my skull, and my vision flares white.I stagger back, reach for the knife at my hip.
I drive an elbow back without looking.Meat and cartilage give.I catch him by the throat and lift.
A second shape slides in tight from my blind right.Cold presses at my neck as a hypodermic needle punches in.Chemical burn floods hot, bitter—pennies and antiseptic.
“Gonna carve your little spider on me too?”he wheezes.“Or should we save that for your wife?”
I rip the syringe out; blood beads; I drive a head-butt into the closest face.Something cracks.He drops.
The other comes in from the side, collapsible baton cracking against my temple.Light detonates behind my eyes.My grip slips.
I lunge anyway—hand on a jacket, fingers hunting a windpipe, the drug climbing my veins.Knees hit asphalt.Grit bites my palms.
Atlas.
If they kill my baby brother I will kill their mothers in front of them.I will skin the people they love alive all the way down to their fucking pets.And that won’t hold a candlestick to what I’ll do because they took my Lindy girl.
I shove, try to get up, to keep swinging, to get to her?—
—but the drug surges hot.
Lindy.
Her hand in mine on the hotel balcony.
Her laughing at something I didn’t mean to be funny.
Her head tucked into my chest, trusting me to keep her safe.
The way she taps three, then five, on the back of my hand until theMachineremembers how to breathe.If they have me, they’ve already got her.I try to count odd—three… five… sev?—
