My mouth falls open.
She thought of everything.
While I was falling apart, she thought about my sister, my reputation, the logistics—every detail.
She protected me.
I settle Grace across the backseat, then slide in next to her, lifting her head into my lap so she’s comfortable. She grips my hand and closes her eyes, exhausted.
Sloane gets behind the wheel.
She adjusts the mirror. The seat (her legs are way shorter than mine—an absurd detail that somehow squeezes my heart). Then she starts the engine.
The Porsche purrs to life.
I look up at the mirror.
Her eyes meet mine in the reflection.
“Everything okay back there?” she asks softly.
I nod, unable to form words.
I run a hand over my face, then go back to stroking Grace’s hair.
I’m grateful.
Silently, desperately, irreversibly grateful for this woman who is becoming my terrifying, unexpected lifeline.
46
Unfinished Puzzles & Broken Hearts
Sloane
Driving Cohen’s Porsche is like driving a velvet bullet. It’s powerful, precise, almost soundless.
But the silence inside the car is anything but luxurious.
It’s heavy. Pressurized. Thick with a kind of dread that fogs the windows from the inside out.
In the rearview mirror, all I see are shadows:
the dark outline of Cohen bent over the smaller, fragile shape of Grace. He’s listening to her breathe, stroking her hair, murmuring words I can’t make out—but I can feel them, humming through the air like a prayer.
By the time I pull into Dominic’s driveway, the porch lights are on.
I don’t even have to honk. The front door flies open before I’ve fully turned off the engine.
Nate and Dominic stand framed in the warm glow of the entryway like two sentries.
I cut the engine. The sudden absence of the motor’s purr rings in my ears.
I get out and open the back door.
Cohen is already climbing out with Grace in his arms.
She looks even smaller now, curled up against his chest, light brown hair a tangled curtain hiding her face.
