The man who sat at our kitchen table and laughed at my mother’s bad jokes.
The man who promised my father,I’ll always watch out for her.
My eyes burn.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper.
“I know,” Dave says. “You don’t have to. Not yet. You just have to come with me.”
My chest aches so hard it feels like a bruise.
“What if you’re wrong?” I whisper.
Dave leans closer, eyes bright with urgency now.
“Then you can hate me later,” he says. “But you’ll be alive to do it.”
Dave’s hand slides from my forearm to my wrist.
“Come on,” he says. “Now.”
My legs feel disconnected from my body.
I should run back inside.
I should scream for Knox.
I should trust the man who pulled me out of the stairwell and kept me breathing.
But then I remember something small and sick and sharp:
Knox didn’t hesitate to throw my phone away.
Knox didn’t hesitate to tell me not to trust anyone.
Knox didn’t hesitate to take control.
And a part of me, the part that’s always been afraid of being too much, whispers:
Of course he’s good at it. It’s his job to be good at it.
My throat tightens.
I let Uncle Dave pull me.
We move fast, cutting through the alley, slipping into the gap between buildings. Dave leads like he’s done this before. Like he already mapped it.
Like he planned it.
At the end of the alley, a dark SUV awaits.
He opens the passenger door.
“Get in,” he says.
I hesitate for a heartbeat, my gaze flicking back toward the street.
Toward the boutique.
