The worst part is I don’t even have the energy to be angry about being wrong. I just feel it settle into me the way cold settles into a room when the heat goes off. This is the part where I usually get up. Get moving, get practical, find the next step and take it. That’s what I do. That’s all I’ve ever done.
I lie here and wait for it to start.
It doesn’t.
I’ve run out of reasons to fight back. That’s the truth of it. I’ve been rebuilding the same rubble for two years, and I’m tired, but the rubble is still there, and I don’t know what I’m rebuilding it toward anymore.
I tried so hard. I tried to do everything right, and I still keep losing. The future I had weakly clung on to, I can’t see it anymore. When I think about it, all I feel is despair. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who to turn to. What I do know is that Ihave nothing left. I’ve wrung myself dry fighting and struggling. I just want to quit now.
I should get up.
It takes effort to move, but I force myself to get out of bed.
There’s no destination in my head. Just the understanding that I can’t stay in this room. I make it to the door and then to the landing, and I take the stairs one at a time with my hand on the rail, not thinking past the next step because that’s all I can manage right now.
An older woman is in the kitchen. She turns when she hears me, and the wooden spoon in her hand stops moving. She’s familiar for some reason, but I can’t put a name with her face, nor do I have the strength to try.
“You should be in bed,” she says, concerned.
I stop in the doorway, leaning against the doorway. “I need a car. Could you book me a taxi or something?”
She sets the spoon down, her brows knitting together. “Mr. Wolfe isn’t back yet. Are you sure you don’t want to wait for him?”
“He’s told me to leave.” My vision is blurring from the pain, but I sink my teeth into my tongue to focus. “I need a car to this address.”
I give her the address of a downtown office, the one place I never wanted to set foot in again. “I don’t have any money, though.”
“It’s fine,” she says and picks up her phone. “I’ll call you a local service that we use sometimes. We have a tab with them.”
I lean against the doorframe while she makes the call. I don’t dare sit. This isn’t my place. I’ve inconvenienced the owner of this house enough.
I look at the countertop, trying to stop my eyes from searching for the young child who’s carved a space in my heart. I have to stay away from Ethan.
“Twenty minutes,” Linda says, hanging up.
“Thank you.”
She picks up her spoon and sets it back down. “Can I get you something to eat or drink?”
“No, thank you.” I look around. “I’ll go wait by the door.”
“Would you like a change of clothes?”
Her question has me looking down at my bloodstained shirt, and I’m suddenly reminded of the two goons in my apartment, the way they had beaten me. This is my blood. My injuries should have been worse given how messed up my clothes are.
But I can’t find it in me to take one more thing from Grayson.
I shake my head. “No. I’m fine.”
I go sit on the bench by the door. Through the narrow window beside it, I can see the drive, the tree line at the edge of the estate, the sky gray and low.
I don’t know why I gave Kozlov’s address. I haven’t thought about it, and I don’t intend to. Some part of my brain is still running on instinct even when reason has packed up and left, and the instinct says go back to where it started. Go back to the man whose debt I’ve been paying in bruises for the better part of a year. Maybe it ends there. Maybe that’s just the next right step, and my brain is too wrung out to argue with it.
The thought doesn’t scare me. It fills me with relief. I want it to be over now. That’s probably the part I should pay attention to.
I hear Ethan before I see him. A soft creak from upstairs, small, uneven footsteps moving toward the landing. I look up at the ceiling and sit perfectly still.
Linda’s voice comes from the kitchen, low and coaxing. A small sound of protest, high and sleepy. Then her voice again, gentle, redirecting.
