Page 135 of To All the Guys I Killed Before

“I just wanted her to be okay.” I tell Azad the unvarnished truth. “I wanted her to get away from him.”

Azad sighs. “I would’ve liked that too.”

My drive home takes longer than nineteen minutes.

I obey every traffic law, aware that I’m on Dianne Azad’s radar even after giving a bullshit but vaguely verifiable statement to the detective who arrived at the house around three in the morning. My cell phone location data puts me at home during Overton’s 911 call, too far away for me to have held the knife. Still, no serial killer likes a cop asking him to stay available for more questions.

Rue hasn’t called. Not me, and not Felicity. Neither of us knows where she’s gone, and neither of us knows how badly she’s hurt. I just know the blood I saw on the window, on the ground, in the snow. Felicity’s on her way to the farmhouse, and I’m driving past Rue’s new goddamn house, then calling every hospital in the area after that if I have to.

Saint Olga heard my prayer, but she only gave me a partial answer.

It’s more than I deserve, I suppose. So I continue driving in the swirling snow, unsure if I’m grateful it helped cover her tracks or devastated that it wiped away the last trace of her I might ever see.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Rue

I’m exhausted and cold and covered in blood, and every part of my body fucking hurts. My chin, my shoulder, my neck—god, my neck is on fire—my ankle, my heels, my knees.

When I finally make it to safety, I crawl straight into bed, aware I’m leaving a million things undone. My bloody clothes. My bloody car. Calling my sister. Calling Pell.

I’ll handle it all later. Right now, I need rest.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

Rue

My knife’s in my hand before my eyes are all the way open. But the threat that had me reaching for my weapon isn’t a threat at all.

“Hi,” I say to the man standing in the doorway as I flip the knife closed and drop it on the nightstand. Turning my head is painful, but so is every muscle in my body, maybe worse than when I arrived at the duplex—I check my phone—two hours ago. Wincing, I pull myself into a sitting position, and something cold and wet nudges my hand. It’s Cosmo, abandoning his spot against my side to climb on top of me with a gentle whuff.

His owner is less pleased.

Scratch that, his owner is pissed, his face stony and his brows pulled low over icy blue eyes.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep in your bed,” I say, but my apology fires his fury as he stalks over to me.

“Where have you been?” he demands, those hard eyes falling to my neck, the blood on my shirt, the… oh fuck, the blood on everything. His fluffy comforter, his sheets, his pillows. God, his pillows were the crispest, coolest fabric I’ve ever rested my head on. And all of it was white before I collapsed on it.

“I wasn’t thinking.” I swallow, my throat burning at the action. “I drove straight here after I…”

How am I supposed to confess to everything that happened tonight with him glowering down at me? He looks so much like the furious man he was the night we learned the truth about each other, and my brain’s too scattered to mount any defense right now. Hell, even if I were operating at one hundred percent, I don’t blame him for wanting me and my chaos out of his life forever. He should want that.

“I’m sorry,” I croak out. “I shouldn’t have come.”

With a whispered apology to Cosmo, I slide him gently onto a non-bloody section of comforter before I fling off the rest of the blankets and ease my legs to the side of the bed, bracing myself for the pain that moving will cause for my—well—everything.

Before I summon the courage to stand, Hugo drops to his knees and buries his face in my lap.

“I thought you were dead,” he says in a broken voice. “Then it wasn’t you on the floor, but there was so much blood at the window, in the snow. You weren’t at your sister’s. You weren’t at your new place. I’ve got Pell checking hospitals and morgues. I didn’t know where else to go, so I came home. I never expected—” His voice collapses in on itself, and his arms are iron bands around my waist.

No, not iron bands. Those are hard and unyielding, unwelcome. Hugo’s arms are strong and safe. They’re the most welcome thing in the world.

“How did you know to look for me?” I’m trying to catch up with his story.

“Felicity called me.”

“But she wants to stab a knife through your eye.”