I only knew that she was in my arms and alive.
Alive.
Her body trembled against mine in short, violent bursts, like her nervous system had finally caught up to what her eyes hadn’t fully processed. Her fingers dug into the front of my sweater—Rose’s sweater—clutching the fabric so tightly it stretched.
“Tante …” she whispered again, voice breaking.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured, my own voice raw. “I’ve got you. C’est fini. It’s over.”
I didn’t know if it was over.
I didn’t know if anything like this ever truly ended.
But she needed the words.
I lowered myself to the edge of the sofa, pulling her fully into my lap, tucking her face into my shoulder the way Ellsworth had just done. Her curls were damp from the rain and from Randy’s slicker. She smelled like soap and fear.
My hands shook as I stroked her back in slow, steady motions. Up and down. Up and down.
Behind me, I was vaguely aware of Kane moving. Of footsteps. Of the sound of metal being handled. Of Ellsworth’s measured, unhurried exit.
The room felt different now.
Quieter.
Heavier.
Randy lay on the floor in the next room. I tried not to think about it. I couldn’t. I focused on Sabine’s small heartbeat against my chest, fast and fluttering like a trapped bird.
“You’re safe,” I repeated softly. “Je suis là. I’m here.”
Her crying softened into hiccups.
She pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes glossy and enormous.
“Il était fâché,” she whispered. He was angry.
“I know,” I said. “But he’s gone.”
That word again.
Gone.
I swallowed hard and held her tighter.
A few seconds later—maybe minutes—Kane stepped into my field of vision. He crouched in front of us, eyes scanning Sabine first, then me.
“You hurt?” he asked quietly.
I shook my head.
Sabine clung harder.
He didn’t touch her yet. He just stayed there, solid and present, letting her register that he wasn’t a threat.
And then I remembered.
Étienne.
