Then she’s gone again, and it’s dark outside.
“Erin. Erin, where are you?”
“I'm right here, love,” she says. “Please, Cavin. Just let them take care of you, will you? For me. Do it for me.”
She's beside me now, her hand in mine.
The memory surfaces, jagged and surreal. The crack of the shot. The crowd scattering.
“We need to know,” I force out. “Who sent them. The big bastard with the fucking pipe.”
“Of course we need to know. What do you think we’re doing?” Declan says from somewhere distant. “We're working on it. We'll find him.”
“What is it?” I turn to Erin. “You've got that look.”
“Shh. Don't worry about that now,” she says too quickly.
I can't say anything about the fuckin' tribute in front of my family, but I'm worried. There's something there—something scratching at the edges of my consciousness. The text that came before the fight. The one that made me see red. The one I haven't told her about.
“I need to talk to Declan.”
“You will,” she says. “Right now, we're taking a look at you. Okay?”
First, the tribute. Somebody thinking they can squeeze me. Her da, not trusted. And now this—the ambush, the attack.
Has to be connected.
“How long—” I start, but the medic sticks something in my arm—painkiller, probably—and the world starts to blur.
I try to fight. I can't pass out. I need to stay awake. I need to protect Erin. I need to?—
“Let it take you,” Doc Sullivan says. “Relax.”
“Please, Cavin. Just for a little bit,” Erin says. “I'll be right here.”
Her voice follows me down into the dark. “I promise.”
The dream comes in fragments—distorted and wrong.
I'm in a warehouse, one that Da used to use for storage. But it's different now. Darker. Colder.
Is it a warehouse or a cell? It's a cell in a fuckin' warehouse.
Bronwyn’s supposed to be here. That's what the note said. But it's not Bronwyn tied to the chair in the center of the room.
It's—
No.
Erin.
Her head's down, blonde hair falling over her face. And there's blood. Blood on her dress. So much fuckin' blood.
My feet won't move. I'm rooted to the spot, watching as a figure emerges from the shadows.
The big bastard with the bandana, the same one from the ring. And he's got a fuckin' pipe in his hand.
“No.” I'm running now, but as I run, the warehouse stretches impossibly long. Every step takes me nowhere.
