Why would he be here at six in the morning?
My head is full of static. My eyes won't focus. I can't make myself think past the next five seconds.
A cop. He's a cop. Cops are safe.
I unlock the door. Open it.
"Officer Daniels." I glance past him, half-expecting to see Carver's car, some explanation. Nothing. "What are you doing here?"
He gives me a warm, concerned smile. "Wanted to check on you after yesterday." He takes in my appearance—the wrecked face, the rumpled clothes, the obvious evidence that I've been falling apart. "You look like you've had a rough night."
"It's been... a lot." I step back without thinking. My eyes drop to the cane, the way he's favoring his right leg. Guilt twists in my stomach. He took that bullet for me. "Do you want to come in?"
"Just for a minute." He crosses the threshold, his gait stiff and uneven. The cane taps against the hardwood with each step. "I know you're probably exhausted."
I close the door behind him. Lock it out of habit.
"Sorry I didn't get to speak to you yesterday. They had me on a pretty short leash."
Daniels laughs. "Rodriguez is a ball buster. But she always gets her man."
"Can I get you something? Water? I don't think I have coffee that isn't expired, but—"
"I'm fine." He limps into the living room, cane clicking against the floor. Takes in the apartment—the dust, the pile of mail, the staleness of a place unlived in. His eyes sweep the space. Cataloging.
"How are you holding up?" he asks. "After yesterday?"
"I don't know." Honest answer. "It doesn't feel real yet. All those months of running, of being afraid, and now it's just... over."
"You did great on the stand." He's leaning against my counter now, arms crossed, perfectly at ease. "Venetti's going away for life because of you."
"Thanks." I try to smile. It feels wrong on my face. "I couldn't have made it this far without people like you. At the safe house—you took a bullet trying to protect me." My gaze drops to his leg, the cane propped against the counter beside him. Three weeks and he's still limping. Still healing. Because of me. "I never properly thanked you for that."
His smile flickers. Just for a second. Something behind his eyes that doesn't match the friendly concern.
"Barely a flesh wound." He shifts his weight, and I catch the wince he tries to hide. "Funny how that works out."
The words land wrong.
Barely a flesh wound. Funny how that works out.
He hasn't sat down. He's standing between me and the door, hand resting near his hip.
And on his coat—small spots. Dark. Fresh.
Blood.
He's wearing gloves. Thin black leather. He never took them off.
He keeps glancing at the door, the windows, my hands.
He's not visiting.
He's assessing.
"Daniels—"
He steps closer, his limp more pronounced without the cane. His expression changes. Pained, almost.
