She broke into a run, the dogs dragging her along in their wake, staggering over root and bramble. When she finally burst free of the trees—scraped open by branches and breathing hard—she was in a neighborhood she recognized.
The towering Georgian mansions rose out of the dark like Goliaths, spotlit in washes of yellow. She didn’t slow, and neither did the dogs. They carted her along faster than she thought herself capable, until a stitch formed in her side.
She didn’t stop until she drew within sight of Hudson Turner’s family home. Close to collapse, she hammered on the door, hoping against hope that Hudson’s parents were working the late shift at the hospital.
The door pried open to admit Hudson, his T-shirt halfway on and his sweatpants cuffed at the ankles. His eyes looked bleary, as though he’d been dead asleep. He took one look at her, taking in the trickle of blood on her brow, mud spattering her clothes.
“I should slam the door in your face,” he said. “It’s what you deserve.”
She wanted to tell him she was sorry. Sorry she’d lied. Sorry she’d hurt him. Sorry she’d ever made him play a part in her scheme. Sorry for all of it—for how it started. For how it ended. For everything in between. She couldn’t say any of that, of course. He wouldn’t understand. She could only blink up at him and wait for him to decide what to do with her.
Finally, he groaned. “I guess we’ve all been a little guilty of using each other, haven’t we?”
She held still and let herself hope. Shoulders sagging, he held the door wider.
“Come on,” he said. “You’re letting the bugs in.”
To Vivienne’s surprise, Reed was there. They found him down in the Turners’ finished basement, planted in the plush leather of a gaming chair, a controller in hand. At the sight of Vivienne, he paused his game and leapt to his feet, tugging his headset down around his neck.
“Holy shit, Viv.”
It looks worse than it is, she signed, but she didn’t know if that was true.
Each subsequent pulse of her heart seemed to bring a fresh bloom of blood cascading down the side of her face. Her leg was screaming. Her abdomen had a heartbeat. Haloed by the flashing red of his dying avatar, Reed didn’t look much better. The bridge of his nose sported an ugly gash, and his eyes were underlined in angry violet.
What happened to you?
“This?” He jabbed a finger at his nose. “You can thank your boyfriend. He went full-on John Wick after you took off.”
Something fluttered in her stomach—something butterfly light and twice as buoyant. She quashed it immediately.
“She needs somewhere to stay,” said Hudson. “I told her she can crash here for the night.”
Reed frowned. “Where’s Grayson?”
Vivienne shook her head.
“Shit.” Reed scrubbed a hand over his head. “Can’t say I didn’t see that coming. You okay?”
I’ll be fine.
“You can’t stay with Walsh?”
She pinched her fingers.No.
Reed’s eyes narrowed. “Understood.”
“Speaking of Walsh,” hedged Hudson, “where is he, anyway?”
She didn’t want to admit that Thomas was likely back in Massachusetts, his pockets full of cash and a copy of his NDA sitting in his glove box. She didn’t want to acknowledge the thought that every perfect thing he’d ever said might have been a lie.
Wincing, she dragged two thumbs up.
“He’s alive,” translated Reed.
“I know what she meant,” said Hudson, still studying her doubtfully. “And I didn’t ask you what state you left him in, Vivienne. I asked youwherehe is.”
Why do you care?
