She stares at me. Her features twist the way they used to when she’d try to hold back tears. “It’s not your fault.”
Rationally, I know it’s not. But it sure feels like it is.
Chapter Five
SOFIA
I’m not sure how my life spun out of control so quickly.
Prior to waking up in the ambulance, the last thing I remember was lying in bed, scrolling through jigsaw puzzles online and trying to decide which one to order next. My greatest concerns that night were whether to choose a puzzle with two thousand pieces or three, and if it was worth it to pay for expedited shipping or if I didn’t mind waiting.
I went with regular shipping in the end, deciding ten dollars extra was an expense I didn’t need. Not when I had so many other bills to worry about, like the rent on the A1 office that just went up for the new year and the student loans I’ll probably still have when I’m eighty.
But those were normal concerns—ones I could push to the back of my mind while focusing on my daily routine. Up at six AM, then a quick shower and hurried breakfast before heading to the A1 Investigations office to tackle the day. After nine hours of meeting with clients and running background checks and sorting through evidence, it’s back home to exercise, cook up aquick dinner for one, and spend a couple hours watching TV and working on a jigsaw puzzle before bed.
Is it an exciting life? No. Aside from the occasional late-night surveillance session—which typically involves me sitting in my car outside some seedy motel, waiting to find out if my client’s husband is indeed cheating on them—my days are relatively uneventful.
Uneventful is good. Reassuring. Comfortable.
What’snotreassuring?
The crapstorm of chaos going on in my life right now.
I was attacked. Dragged off the street and into an alley, where I was beaten by two unidentified men. For what reason? No idea, because I can’t remember any of it.
When the neurologist stopped back to check on me first thing this morning, he asked if I’d had any flashes of memory. “They can come back all at once or in spurts,” he explained. “Or you might not remember at all.” With a laugh, he added, “The brain can be a funny thing.”
I didn’t laugh. Because while I could do without remembering the actual attack, I’d really like to know how it happened. I’d like to know if there’s anything I can remember about the men who attacked me. And I’d like to know why the heck I went to Nico’s condo under the auspices ofsurprisinghim.
Why would I have gone there? Not for a friendly hello, that’s for sure. But for some insane reason, I apparently decided to visit my ex—the man who shattered my heart so thoroughly, it never completely healed. And now, not only do I have the aftermath of the attack to deal with, but Nico’s overwhelming presence as well.
He hasn’t left the hospital since swooping in like some hero plucked straight from an action movie; something I’m both irrationally irritated about and thankful for.
I’m thankful for obvious reasons, since I’d probably be dead if he hadn’t shown up.
Unlike my memories of the first attack, the second I remember in vivid detail. I was almost asleep when the male nurse walked in—or at least Ithoughthe was a real nurse at the time—and came over to fuss with my IV. I was feeling groggy from the pain medication I’d been given earlier, so I didn’t even bother to greet him. I just closed my eyes and hoped he’d leave quickly so I could get some sleep.
Then he yanked the pillow from beneath my head and started smothering me with it.
I tried to get away, but he was freakishly strong. Or maybe I was just weaker than I thought. But either way, he had me pinned down and I couldn’t get up. As my lungs strained for air, my life flashed before my eyes. All my regrets, my what-ifs, my if-onlys, spun by in a dizzying whirl.
I don’t want to die,I remember thinking.I’m not ready.
Please,I prayed for the first time in years,help me. Don’t let me die here.
And then, like an answer to my prayer, Nico showed up to save me.
If his presence didn’t irritate me so much, I’d almost consider it romantic.
If this were a movie, it would be. The handsome hero swooping in to save the damsel in distress, holding her in his arms as he reassured her, barking orders at the hospital staff like a commanding general, and basically taking over the entire situation.
But in the movie, the hero would be in love with the heroine. Or at least, he’d be well on his way. There wouldn’t be years of bitter history between them. The heroine wouldn’t feel betrayed and hurt every time she sees him. It would be a love story insteadof a cautionary tale about giving away your heart to the wrong person.
So that’s where the irritation comes from. I don’t want to feel thankful to Nico. I don’t want to remember the feeling of utter relief when he lifted me into his arms. And I hate how right it felt, being held by him, or how, just for a scared and weak moment, I wanted to beg him never to let me go.
But like it or not, apparently I’m stuck with him. Because in the eight hours since my second attack—how freaking crazy is that?—he hasn’t been out of sight for more than a few minutes. He’s left the room, sure, but it’s only to make a quick phone call or talk to one of his employees, who he called in for backup.
“I’m not worried about anyone getting to you now,” he explained. “I have trained security staff who’ll be on the lookout for anything suspicious. And if this asshole gets it in his head to come back, we’ll stop him.”
