“I’m fine.” I brush glass fragments off my shirt. “Just go, please.”
She doesn’t argue this time, retreating down the hallway, slowing for a heartbeat before continuing.
When her door closes, I’m left alone in the ruined living room. Glass fragments sparkle on every surface, catching the last rays of sunlight through the jagged hole where our window used to be. The blinds hang off-kilter, shredded by flying shards.
I approach with caution, the hard soles of my slippers crunching over the debris. Cold air rushes in, carrying the sounds of car horns, distant shouts, and the continued wail of sirens. Our apartment sits vulnerable, its barrier to the outside world reduced to the jagged glass still clinging to the frame.
My fingers trace the splintered wood of the windowsill where bullets tore through the painted surface.
Three impact points. One in the frame, one in the wall above the couch, and one in the ceiling. Random shots, fired during a drive-by that had nothing to do with us.Wrong place, wrong time.The unofficial motto of Brickwell.
This wasn’t about us, and that’s what terrifies me most.
All my careful planning, my locks and routines and protective measures, mean nothing when confronted by this kind of random violence.
I stare through the broken window at the street below, counting the buildings between ours and the corner where dealers conduct business after dark. Measuring the distance from our front door to the bus stop where Lena comes and goes from school. Calculating the number of steps between safety and danger, and finding the equation impossible to solve.
For years, I’ve told myself control equals safety. That if I work hard enough, plan with enough care, and sacrifice everything I have, I can keep Lena protected. But all I have to do is look at the last two weeks to see the evidence of my failure.
What happens when she’s alone next time? What happens when I’m working another night shift, and bullets find our bedroom windows instead of the living room? What happens when another Danny appears?
What happens when luck runs out?
I can’t be everywhere, control everything, and prevent every danger.
I can’t do this alone.
My fingers tremble as I pull my phone from my pocket. The screen lights up, illuminating our broken home as I pull up the only contact who can help us.
Pride screams at me to put the phone away. To grab a broom, sweep up the glass, tape cardboard over the window, and pretend this is any other night in Brickwell. To keep fighting alone because that’s what I’ve always done.
But Lena’s safety matters more than my pride. Her future matters more than my fear of dependency. Her life matters more than my illusion of control.
I hit call.
The phone rings once, twice, and connects. A familiar rumble comes through the speaker, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine despite everything.
“What do you need, precious?”
Glass crunches under my slippers, and it might as well be slicing through me. “I need a safer place for my sister.”
Rowan’s response comes without hesitation. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. When I arrive, you’d better have a suitcase of your own waiting, too, precious. You and your sister are a package deal.”
The line goes dead, and with it, the last of my resistance.
11
The first lock clicks open beneath Rowan’s key, followed by the second, then the third. He punches a code into the security panel, and a green light blinks as the lock whirs.
The lockpicker in me approves this setup.
The door swings inward without a sound, revealing an open space beyond. I hadn’t been too sure about Rowan’s place being a better option when he parked beneath what appeared to be a warehouse, but he had converted the second floor into a spacious loft.
Rowan holds the door, gesturing for us to go first. “Welcome home.”
I step through first, shoulders tight, scanning for the exits before I even clear the threshold.
My hand tightens around the trash bag holding my meager belongings. The backpack had been saved for my tools of trade and anything Lena and I worried would break along the way.
