I left Roman with the mindset of ending it.
But this, whatever it is, has only just begun.
CHAPTER 30
AMALIE
The automatic doors to the police station hiss open and I stagger inside like I’m crossing a finish line. My lungs are burning, my legs shaking. I stumble to the counter, holding onto it to steady myself.
“I was attacked.” I say the words to everyone and no one, letting them tumble out of my mouth, my vision blurry, adrenaline still coursing through me. “Two blocks away. Two men. Black van. They tried to—” That’s as far as I get before my knees start to buckle underneath me.
A female officer hurries over and places her hand on my shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get out of the lobby.”
She walks me through the precinct, past the security barriers. A pair of officers form up at my sides. Soon, I’m in the bustling main area of the station—the bull pen—where officers are talking and working, many of them seated at desks. She guides me to a small chair by the window. Another officer places a paper cup of water in my hands.
The room smells like coffee and floor cleaner. The chatter of dozens of other officers is a dull din. One of the officers asks me the basics—my name, if I was injured, all of that.
I’m safe. But my pulse is still pounding.
“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m just really shaken up.”
They start asking questions. The female cop goes first. She speaks slowly and calmly, and I can tell I’m not the first panicked person she’s tried to get information from. The questions are typical: where, when, what did they look like. I answer as best I can, but it all happened so fast.
“Did they say anything?” she asks gently.
I hesitate, then close my eyes. “Russian. They had Russian accents.”
The officers exchange a look. One of them takes a note.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to slow my breathing, keeping something important in mind.Don’t talk about Roman. Don’t say his name. Don’t say anything that could connect this to him.
The sound of hurried footsteps reaches me before I see him.
“Amalie.”
I don’t need to look up to know who it is. I raise my gaze and make eye contact with my brother. He’s dressed in civilian clothes, his hair a little mussed, stubble on his face, his jacket wrinkled.
He looks me up and down with trained eyes, assessing me for injury, possible evidence. Then he drops to a crouch, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch me without permission.
“Jesus, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” The word comes out shaky. “I mean, physically I’m fine.”
He nods. “Okay. Good. What happened?”
Another lesson of Kyle’s comes to mind, the one about talking to the cops. He’s always told me to only say what I know for sure, don’t speculate, and don’t name names. A little ironic that I’d be using this lesson while talking to him, but then again, that’s probably the least strangest thing that’s happened in my life over the last few weeks.
I close my eyes, think as clearly as I’m capable in the moment, then speak. “It happened near my building,” I say slowly. “Two men. Tall. Muscular. They tried to grab me. I fought them off, and someone intervened.”
“Someone?” he asks.
“A bystander.”
Kyle’s eyes narrow a bit; he realizes there’s more to this than what I’m saying. “And the attackers?”
“Not sure. One was down when the bystander told me to run here. I don’t know what happened to them.”
He studies my face, reading what I’m not saying. “I heard you say they were speaking Russian.”
