Gotta hand it to Ryker and Wren. No one’s getting past all these goddamn security protocols. I have to lock the front door with my palm print, and when Murph’s done, it’ll take a keycard, spoken passphrase, and a ten digit code to get back in.
The sun warms my back while Murphy waters the first tree he finds. Not many people out this early—thank God—and I start to relax.
Maybe this won’t be as terrible as I’d feared.
The ground shakes as something big barrels my way from behind. The travel mug hits the concrete. I scan the sidewalk. Run. Hide. But there’s nowhere to go.
A massive yellow and blue city bus rushes past us. Exhaust burns my nose. Along with the scent of coffee.
Murphy’s front paws land on my chest and his cold tongue swipes at my cheek.
Get it together. It’s a fucking bus. Not a Humvee. Or a tank. Or an RPG.
Yeah, tell that to my cross-wired brain. I’m shaking.
Stroking a hand down Murphy’s back, I focus on his eyes. My best friend. The noise didn’t bother him one bit. But he knew I needed him.
“Sorry, pal. Think there’s any coffee left?” My voice cracks, and after I blow out a shaky breath, I wrap the end of his leash around my hand and retrieve the partial mug of coffee.
At least it’s not all gone.
“Don’t tell West,” I mutter. “Or Hope. She doesn’t need to worry about me.”
Murphy trots along next to me, and we start doing circuits of the block so he can do his business and work off some of his pent-up energy. He’s going to go batshit trapped inside all day. There has to be a dog park around here somewhere. A place he can run.
Hope’s going to wake up soon, and I don’t want her to be alone. Not for long. The apartment might be locked up tight, but that’s part of the problem. She was a prisoner for three years. There’s no way in hell I’m gonna let her feel like one now.
After breakfast—and a check-in with Ryker—maybe I’ll take her shopping. Even though going out in public is the last thing I want to do.
Hope
Clutching Wyatt’s note—and my new phone—to my chest, I open the French doors and step out onto the balcony. A gentle breeze ruffles my long hair.
“Tomorrow, we’ll take some photos and get you new IDs.”
I need scissors. Going to a stylist is so far out of the realm of possibility, I won’t even ask, but I have to do something to feel more like me again.
In front of the bathroom mirror, I part my hair into sections and pick up the kitchen shears. Can I really do this?
Simon locked up everything sharper than a ball point pen, and for three years, he refused to let me touch my hair. “It looks better long, my sweet.”
Yeah, right. He just wanted it long so he could grab it to control me. I lost count of the number of times he dragged me by my long locks to that tiny room in the center of the compound. Once, I was so desperate, I tried to saw through the strands with a nail file. He found me. Then started bringing in a manicurist every two weeks. One he paid very well not to listen to anything I had to say.
The first strands cascade into the sink. It’s so liberating, my eyes burn. Following the line of my jaw, I keep cutting. The back probably looks like shit, but all I can see in the mirror is a short, angled bob, longer in front, that frames my face and makes me look like a completely different person.
Or maybe that’s just how I feel.
My phone vibrates on the counter, and the scissors clatter to the floor. Shit.
Wyatt: Coming back up with Murph.
My hands shake, panic sitting like a lead weight in my stomach. The bathroom’s a mess. Why did I think this was a good idea?
The door locks thunk from the other room, and drop to my knees, frantically trying to push the errant strands of hair littering the tile floor into a pile.
“Hope?” Wyatt calls.
Don’t come in. Don’t come in. Don’t come in.
