She nods, and I wrap my arm around her and guide her toward the stairs. Gabe falls into step beside us, one hand resting briefly on my shoulder, the only acknowledgment he gives to what just happened, and the only one I need.
I pause to glance behind us one last time, where members of Gabe's team are attending to Nadiyah and her family and securing her abandoned weapon.
The stairwell swallows us, concrete walls closing in after the open sky, the sudden absence of wind making the silence louder.Avery leans into me as we descend, her weight settling against my side like her body has finally stopped holding itself up.
My legs feel like they belong to someone else. Each step sends a dull shock through my scraped back, my aching hand, the places where gravel is still embedded in skin. The adrenaline is receding now, pulling back like a tide, and what it leaves behind is raw.
Avery's hand tightens in mine.
I press my lips to her temple. Her pulse beats against my lips, steady, real, alive.
"Let's get out of here, angel."
41
AVERY
The soreness is stillwith me, hours after Nick took me off that rooftop in Chelsea. A deep, dull ache wraps around my ribs where Nadiyah's arm had been clamped for what felt like hours but was probably minutes. Every breath presses against the bruise, a low-grade reminder of what my body went through today even if my mind is still catching up.
The hospital bed in my private room is raised to a slight incline beneath me. Stiff sheets, thin blanket, the steady beep of a fetal monitor somewhere to my left confirming what the doctors already told us. The baby is fine. I'm fine. Both of us are fine.
I keep needing to hear it. Keep needing the proof.
Nick is beside me, his chair pulled so close his knees press against the mattress. His hand holds mine, the roughness of his palm familiar, grounding, his thumb tracing my knuckles as though he needs the contact to convince himself I'm real. It’s not the desperate white-knuckled grip from the ambulance ride, but something steadier now. Present. Still, I can feel the faint tremor beneath it, the effort his steadiness requires.
His scent grounds me, despite that his clothes still carry traces of concrete dust and sweat from the rooftop. Underneath all of it is the warm, clean scent that's just him, the one I breathe in every night with my face pressed against his chest. My body leans toward it now, my senses seeking the safety of him.
The shadows beneath his eyes are darker than I've ever seen them. Tension locks his jaw, his shoulders, holds his whole body rigid even as he tries to appear calm. He's hardly spoken, except to ask what I need and to whisper low reassurances against my temple while the doctors examined me.
He's been holding himself together for hours. But I know him too well. I can see the hairline fractures spreading beneath the surface, the places where the control is starting to slip.
Gabe and Eve anchor one corner of the room. She's perched on the arm of his chair, her hand resting on Gabe’s shoulder, her dark hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. Gabe followed us to the hospital after we gave our statements to the police. Eve came soon afterward, neither of them in any hurry to leave us.
Andrew Beckham stands near the window that overlooks the late-afternoon skyline, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and clipped. That's how Beck shows love—by fixing things, by making calls, by ensuring every loose thread is tied before it can unravel.
No one is saying much. The conversations are low, sporadic. A question about water, a murmured update into a phone. The kind of quiet that settles over people who've been badly frightened and are still remembering how to breathe.
Eve catches my eye. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"
"I'm all right." The words come easier now than they did an hour ago. "Just tired."
Gabe shifts in his chair, checking his phone as it buzzes with another update. His expression is unreadable as he scans the screen, then looks up at us.
"That was Vaughn. Nadiyah's in police custody. She'll be held overnight, arraigned tomorrow morning."
Nick glances up. "And her family?" His voice is rougher than usual, scraped raw.
"Her mother and the boy are with a family services liaison. Not in custody, just being looked after until arrangements can be made." Gabe pauses, and something shifts in his face. "There's something else."
"What is it?" Nick demands.
"The police processed the weapon." Gabe's gaze moves between Nick and me. "The gun wasn't loaded. Police didn't find any ammunition in her apartment either."
For a second, the words don't make sense. All those terrifying moments on the rooftop. The cold circle of metal against my temple. The absolute certainty that one wrong word, one sudden movement, would be the last thing I ever knew. And the gun was empty the entire time.
My hand moves instinctively to the side of my head where the barrel pressed. The skin is tender there, though I don't remember being aware of it until now.
It’s a relief, but a small one. After all, Nadiyah hadn’t been planning to shoot me.
