I stared at him, mind blank. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He didn’t answer. Just moved to the window, yanked the curtain open, then shut it again like he was wrestling with a ghost. “You’re not gonna tell me who did it?”
“Does it matter?”
“It does if I’m gonna kill them,” he said, and for a split second I couldn’t tell if he was kidding.
I licked my lips, tasted copper, and tried to get my bearings. The room felt too small, the walls closing in around us. I wanted to get up, but the idea of standing while he was still staring at me felt like a challenge I couldn’t win.
“Why do you care?” I blurted, more accusation than question.
That got his attention. He turned, looked at me like he was trying to decide if I was a puzzle or a problem to fix.
“I just do,” he said, but there was something in his voice—something heavy.
I dropped my eyes and tried to remember how to breathe. I’d always been good at being invisible, at letting people see the mess on the outside and never what was rotting underneath. But with Jo, it was like every defense I’d built just evaporated. He made me want to talk, even when I hated what I had to say.
I risked a glance up. “You can go, you know. I’m not a hostage.”
He was already shaking his head. “Not happening. You’re coming with me.”
I should have protested. Should have told him to fuck off, that I was a grown-ass man who could handle his own problems. But the idea of leaving with Jo, of not spending another minute in this room, was so appealing it scared me.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Yeah. Okay.”
He nodded once, then went to the bathroom to grab a towel. When he came back, he pressed it to my cheek, way more gentle than he had any right to be.
“Lean back,” he said, voice softer now.
I did.
For the next few minutes, neither of us said a word. He cleaned the blood off my face, hands steady and sure. I kept my eyes closed, just listening to the sound of his breath and the way he muttered under his breath when he found a fresh bruise or cut. When he was done, he stepped back and looked at me like he was measuring for a coffin.
“You good?” he asked.
“I’ll live.”
He glanced around the room, then back at me. “Anything else you need to tell me?”
I hesitated. “There was art in the saddlebags. Portfolio, sketches. Probably got tossed with the rest.”
He frowned, and I expected him to make a crack about my “pretty pictures.” Instead, he just nodded. “We’ll see if we can get it back.”
I bit down on the urge to say thanks. It would have sounded pathetic. “Knox put you up to this?” I said.
He snorted. “What do you think?”
“I think you’d rather be anywhere but here.”
He held my gaze, and this time there was no anger, just this sad, exhausted kind of resignation. “Not true,” he said. “But I’d like to get you home in one piece, if it’s all the same.”
I looked away, blinking fast. “Yeah. Me too.”
He went to the door, paused with his hand on the knob. “You ready?”
I grabbed my backpack, slung it over my shoulder, and gave him a crooked smile. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
He held the door open for me, just like he always used to, and I tried not to limp as I walked past. The hallway smelled like burned coffee and ammonia, and my legs felt shaky, but for the first time in a long while, I didn’t mind the idea of being seen.
