It was him. He was trying to speak to her. He was trying to ask her to do something—though it took her an age to figure out what exactly it was that he wanted. His voice was like listening to the ocean, through a big shell. It was all blurry and faraway, to the point where almost none if it was clear. In the end, she had to guess, based on nothing more than his gestures.
But luckily, they were good gestures.
They were the best, in fact.
He put a hand one her shoulder,so light she could have mistaken it for a summer breeze. Then just when it became too much, he drew back. He put that hand to his chest, in a way she could never have misunderstood. It was clear as day:I’m sorry.
Though she had no idea what he was sorry for.
He had just shot a man to save her life.
She knew he had. It was the reason her ears were ringing.
The reason for the spray of blood on the bed by her side.
And it was why he gestured for her to wipe her face, before she went to get the kid.
So Emily wouldn’t see it, she thought, as she staggered to the window. So it would look like everything was almost okay—though she wasn’t quite sure how that was going to happen.
Even without the blood, there was still him.
Or so she thought.
But when she turned with the girl in her arms, he was gone.
Chapter One
Lydia knew as soon as she walked in that she had made a mistake. The group therapy flier had seemed so cheery, but this was not a cheery place. It looked like the thing it was: an abandoned dance studio on the crappy side of campus, half-falling down and full of sad relics. On the far wall, there had been a bar where girls probably did ballet moves. Now it was just a shorn off hunk of metal, hanging down at an odd angle.The once glossy floor had warped, and turned greasy and dark.
It almost felt like her shoes were sinking into it, when she took a step inside.
And the whole place was cold, very cold.
Somebody had boarded up a broken window on the left-hand wall, but the cardboard flapped and whistled. Not even the groaning, over-hot pipes that ran along the baseboard could make up for it—as evidenced by the amount of people still wearing their jackets. She spotted a girl she vaguely knew from her class on Freudian theory, in full winter wear.
Hat, scarf, gloves.
Then wished she was wearing the same. Her leather jacket made good armor, but it wasn’t particularly warm. The pockets did absolutely nothing for her frozen fingers, no matter how deep she buried them.She had to get a cup of hot coffee just to heat them up, but that proved to be a mistake.
It tasted like dirty water.
Andby the time she’d finished not drinking it, everyone was seated in the circle of chairs. They were waiting for her, so silent and wide-eyedit made her pulse pick up. Her mouth was suddenly dry, despite the coffee—and the flippant words she’d said to Letty before leaving their apartment:They’ll probably recognize me from the news and want all the gory details.
It had seemed like a joke, back then. She had laughed.
But now, it was a terrifying reality.
She was going to haveto sit in that circle,next to complete strangers.
And then, she was going to have to describeeverything. The knuckles, the smell of blood, the sound of their boots on the stairs. Maybe she’d even slip up and tell them about the other guy, and fuck knows what would happen then. Most likely, one of them would tell the police that she hadn’t had a lucky escape at all. That her attacker hadn’t shot himself by accident.There was someone else, they’d say, and the next thing she knew, she’d be in prison for covering up crimes.
She wouldn’t even be able to say why she had done it.
Most days, she wasn’t sure. It had just seemed right.
Like the thank you she longed to give him.
But knew she never would.
