The car was warm.
Matt helped me into the passenger seat and buckled my seatbelt. The leather was soft. The heater was on. The world outside was dark and cold, but inside the car, it was warm, and I was shaking, and I couldn't make it stop.
"I killed him."
"I know."
"I don't remember his name."
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"Why?"
"Because I want to remember. I want to remember all of them. I want to carry them with me. I want to know that their deaths meant something."
"They meant something."
"What?"
"They brought you closer to the truth. Closer to Gabriel. Closer to whatever comes next."
He pulled away from the curb, and the warehouse disappeared behind us, swallowed by the darkness.
"Where are we going?"
"Home."
"I don't have a home."
"Yes, you do. The bar. The back room. My couch. That's home, for now. It's enough."
"It's not enough."
"It's all we have."
The back room was warm.
Matt helped me to the couch and wrapped a blanket around my shoulders. The same blanket. The same couch. The same room that had become my sanctuary, my refuge, the only place I felt safe.
"I need to clean you up."
"I can do it."
"I know. But let me."
He went to the kitchenette and ran the water until it was warm. He brought back a bowl and a cloth and knelt in front of me.
"Give me your hands."
I held out my hands. They were red, still wet, still warm. He took them in his and began to wash them—slowly, gently, wiping away the blood.
"You're shaking."
"I know."
"It's the adrenaline. It'll pass."
