Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 62994 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 315(@200wpm)___ 252(@250wpm)___ 210(@300wpm)
Retaliation. Meaning someone hurt Samuil, and he hurt them back. He killed this man, who was barely even a man. He had no time to live, to become someone.
The truth is so much bigger and darker than I imagined.
“I should go,” I whisper to Kelly.
“Molly, wait—” she protests, but I don’t have it in me to wait.
I hang up and pull the phone to my chest like I’m trying to press the world back into place. But nothing settles. Nothing stops spinning.
I pick the phone back up. I try to breathe slowly but my hands won’t stop trembling. I click the next article. Then the next. Then the next.
One image is burned into my memory: a child’s shoe lies in a pool of blood on a sidewalk. Another shows security footage stills of masked men storming an apartment building. One headline refers to “collateral damage.”
I’m shaking so hard I have to press both palms to the mattress just to steady myself. The walls feel too close. The air feels too thin.
I think of the way Samuil kissed me yesterday, gentle and reverent, like he finally understood something he’d been fighting for years, and of the way his voice broke when he said he wanted to be better than the people who raised him.
And none of it changes the truth. He is still who he is. People die because of it. My baby could die because of it. Will my baby be called “collateral damage?”
I don’t intend to stick around long enough to find out.
21
SAMUIL
When I walk into the apartment that evening, the atmosphere is off. Tense in a way it hasn’t been in days. I’ve gotten used to finding Molly lesson planning or working with Anya, a buzz of excitement and activity in the air. Tonight, it’s still. Almost frigid.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Something is wrong. I’m immediately on my guard. I pad quietly into the living room, ready to grab the gun hidden under the couch. As soon as the couch comes into view, though, I know there’s no physical threat.
Molly is curled up at the far end, her back pressed into the cushions, knees drawn to her chest, shoulders shaking in that barely-there way that tells me she’s been crying for a long time. Her hair is down around her face, hiding most of it, but what I can see looks pale and devastated. Her eyes are glassy and swollen. She’s breathing in tiny, uneven pulls, like she can’t quite catch a full breath.
My heart jumps straight into my throat. I haven’t seen her this shaken since the night I found her in the alley. She stares vacantly at nothing, her gaze a thousand yards long. It’s like she’s seen a ghost or been threatened by someone dangerous. My blood boils, and I’m overcome with the need to fix whatever is wrong. Whoever made her feel this way is going to beg for death by the time I’m done with them.
“Molly,” I say sharply.
She doesn’t move or respond.
“Molly,” I try again, crossing the room in three long strides and dropping into a crouch next to the couch. “Look at me.”
She doesn’t even lift her head to look at me, her eyes fixed straight ahead. Her fingers tighten around the edge of a throw blanket, though, making my stomach twist. She looks sick or scared. I don’t know which is worse.
“Tell me who did this,” I demand. “Who hurt you?”
Her voice comes out so small I almost don’t hear it.
“You,” she says on a breath.
The word hits me like someone drove a blade straight between my ribs.
I sit frozen for a second, stunned. I don’t know how to process that. What could she possibly mean? I rack my brain, trying to remember anything I’ve done to hurt her or betray her. I come up with nothing.
She’s hollow and vacant, like she’s given up on me. I try to tamp down my frustration. I thought we were past all this. Apparently not.
When she finally moves, it’s only to shift the blanket enough for me to see the tablet resting beside her thigh. A news article glows across the screen. It’s open to a photo I know too well: Zahn. His crew. The bodies covered in blood on the pavement. The police tape. My own photograph is inset in the corner with a headline that names me as a suspect and then clears me halfway down the page.
It’s an old case, but a bloody one. It definitely wasn’t my proudest moment. Not by a long shot. I was doing what needed to be done, but I know she’ll need some time to come to terms with that. I try to approach it carefully.
“Molly,” I say quietly, trying to steady myself. “That article is over a year old.”