I’d seen combat. I had watched people die. On occasion, I’d been the one to inflict that outcome. Not much scared me.
But Amelia?
She did.
She fucking terrified me.
I picked up my pace on the next set of stairs. I couldn’t wait to see her, even though I knew she’d probably slam the door in my face.
Or she’d call the cops on me.
That’d be the cherry on top of a shitty first week back to work.
The 911 transcript would be posted in the break room by Monday morning like it had been cut from the Sunday comics.
Still, I didn’t hesitate to knock.
I’d take her full fury if it meant laying eyes on her. I had to see for myself that she was okay.
I waited a few seconds, then knocked again.
No answer.
She wasn’t the type to leave lights on.
I knocked again and waited some more.
And some more.
Every few minutes, I’d knock. I was certain that, at some point, her neighbors would get annoyed and tell me to beat it.
That’s where the badge and bureau credentials came in handy.
I knocked one more time, fully expecting to be met with silence the way I had been for the last hour, when the door opened.
My heart seized at the sight of her.
“Hey,” I croaked as I took her in.
Amelia’s hair was sopping wet, soaking into her waffle-knit pajama set. She was fresh-faced, like she had just gotten out of the shower. The fabric hung off her willowy frame, poorly hiding the fact that she hadn’t been eating enough. Gone were the freckles that had sprouted across her nose and cheeks after our hikes in the mountains. Dark circles shaded the skin beneath her eyes. She was pale and her cheeks had begun to hollow.
I had done that to her.
Not Valentine. Not the FBI.
Me.
“I thought you were my dinner,” she said, glancing at the doormat to see if there was a takeout bag beneath my feet.
I wanted to reach out and touch her. To cup her cheeks. To pull her into my chest. To hold her.
Telling her I was sorry seemed useless. I knew she wouldn’t forgive me. She had no reason to. I didn’t deserve her forgiveness.
“I can go pick up something for you,” I said. “I’d . . . I’d like to talk.”
Her stare was blank. She didn’t even look hurt. Maybe that’s what was most startling. I expected her to be angry and yell at me.
But she was just . . . vacant. A shell of a person. A ghost.
