"You killed him," she says. "Didn't hesitate. Didn't flinch."
"No."
"Because of me. To protect me."
"Yes."
She studies my face. I don't know what she's looking for—guilt, remorse, some sign that the violence costs me something. She won't find it. That part of me died a long time ago.
"I should be horrified," she says finally. "I watched you kill a man twenty minutes ago. I should be running. Calling the cops. Something."
"Why aren't you?"
"Because he was going to kill us." Her voice is steady now. The trembling has stopped. "Because you put yourself between me and a bullet without thinking. Because—" She stops. Swallows."Because I'm starting to understand why my father hired you. What you actually are."
"And what's that?"
"The thing that keeps monsters away from little girls." Her hand tightens in mine. "My father used to say everyone deserves grace. Even the dangerous ones. I think he meant people like you."
Something cracks in my chest. Some wall I didn't know was there.
"Your father was a better man than I'll ever be."
"Maybe." She steps closer. "But he's gone. And you're here. And I'm still alive because of it." Her free hand touches my jaw—light, careful, like she's checking whether I'm real. "Thank you."
I don't kiss her.
I want to. God, I want to. But not here, not now, not with his blood still on my hands and sirens still echoing in the distance.
Instead, I pull her against my chest. Feel her arms wrap around my ribs. Hold her the way I'd hold something precious and breakable, even though she's proving to be neither.
"Let's go home," I say into her hair.
We walk the rest of the way in silence. Her hand stays in mine. She doesn't let go when we pass other people on the sidewalk, doesn't pull away when a cop car screams past, heading toward the park.
She holds on tighter.
9
Izzy
The door closes behind us,and I still can't let go of his hand.
My fingers are locked around his like he's the only solid thing in a world that just showed me its teeth. Twenty minutes ago, I watched him kill a man. Watched him press his forearm against a throat and hold until the struggling stopped. Watched death happen in real time, up close, brutal and necessary.
I should be horrified.
I should be calling the police, a therapist, anyone who can explain why I'm standing in a killer's kitchen still holding his hand instead of running.
But I'm not running.
I'm not letting go.
"Izzy." His voice is low, careful. The voice you use with wild animals or women on the verge of breaking. "You should sit down. Drink something. The adrenaline crash is going to?—"
"I don't want to sit down."
"Then what do you want?"
