Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 90919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
When I’d first seen her sitting on the steps, I’d had so much adrenaline flowing through me that I’d felt like I could take on an army with just my fists. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, I wasn’t sure that I was good for much of anything.
“Hey baby,” I called, walking toward her slowly.
“Everybody left?” she asked, looking up at me in confusion.
“Your dad’s still outside.”
“Oh, okay.”
“I put a call in to the police. The FBI, actually. They’re gonna send someone out to talk to you.” I pulled out the chair that Rumi’d been sitting in and pulled it closer to her.
“I’m going to jail, aren’t I?” There was no emotion in her voice.
“No,” I replied instantly, sitting down. “Fuck no.”
“I killed someone.”
“You killed Julian Kitz,” I clarified.
“Did you check his wallet?”
“No, we’ve met.”
“You knew him?”
“Baby,” I said softly, reaching for her hands. “He’s the man that hurt Aisling.”
Myla jerked back in surprise. “What?”
“He’s the one who shot Richie and hurt Aisling.”
“Oh my god,” Myla whispered, her eyes going unfocused. “That’s why he was here.”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“I’m so sorry, baby.”
“What? Why?”
“You got caught up in my family shit—” My words trailed off as she glared.
“Am I not your family?”
“Of course you are.”
“Then shut up.”
“Myla—”
“No, shut the fuck up.”
“If Richie wouldn’t have fucked up so bad, none of this woulda happened.”
“Richie. Not you. Not Aisling.” Her breath hitched. “Not me.”
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” I murmured, lifting her hands to my mouth. “Jesus Christ, Myla.”
“What do I say to the police?” she asked nervously.
“The truth.”
“He didn’t have a weapon,” she whispered.
I stared at her in disbelief.
“I shot someone that was unarmed.” Her voice wobbled.
I stood and tugged her to her feet, leading her down the hallway to the bathroom. The light in there was stark and bright, and she winced as I situated her in front of the mirror. Reaching up slowly, I pulled down the neck of the hoodie she was wearing.
“He had a weapon, baby.” I kissed the back of her head softly as she stared at the perfect outline of fingers that were starting to purple on her neck. “He almost ripped out your throat with his goddamn hand.”
There were little scratches where his fingernails had dug in.
I shuddered.
“He would’ve killed me,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
She was quiet for a long moment.
“Okay.”
I turned her in my arms and let out a long breath as she pressed her forehead against my chest, her arms sliding around my waist.
“I love you,” I murmured.
“Were you scared?”
“Out of my mind with it.”
“Me, too.”
I pressed my lips to the part of her hair, leaving them there as I breathed her in. She was okay. She was standing in my arms. Whole. Safe.
“I accidentally dropped Saoirse’s cake,” she mumbled against my shirt.
“I think she’ll forgive you.”
We made our way back out to the living room and settled onto the couch with Myla in my lap. Everything was silent. I couldn’t stop touching her. Rubbing her back. Lacing our fingers. Pulling her closer. Kissing her face. Her ear.
I reached up to run my fingers through her hair, and she jolted so violently that my heart started racing again.
“What?”
“Don’t—”
“What’s wrong?”
“He had a hold of my hair,” she explained hoarsely. “He took a lot with him when he fell.”
“Oh, shit, baby,” I replied, looking at her head. “Let me see.”
“It’s kind of to the side,” she murmured. “Above my ear and in the back by my neck.”
“Come on,” I ordered gently, helping her to her feet. “Come into the light.”
I led her to the kitchen.
“It’s right here,” she said, tipping her head carefully as she pointed.
I delicately separated the strands of her hair and found a bloody bald patch just a little above and behind her right ear.
“Is it bad?” she asked softly.
“No, no, not that bad.” It looked painful and raw. “Where’s the other one?”
“Here,” she said, slowly leaning her head forward as she pointed.
The place above her hairline was worse.
“This one hurts more,” she said.
“Yeah, looks worse, too.”
“Is it bleeding?”
“Just a little. It’s all scabbed over now.” I let her hair fall back into place, hiding the wound. “Any others?”
“My entire scalp hurts,” she said tiredly. “But those are the worst ones.”
“They’re here,” Tommy said, poking his head inside the door. He looked at Myla. “Good?”
“I’m okay.”
He disappeared again. A few moments later, I let two men in suits inside.
“Hi, I’m Special Agent Robinson, and this is my colleague Special Agent Gibson.”
“Cian Kelly,” I said, shaking their hands.
They looked to Myla.
“Myla Hawthorne,” she said, her voice still broken and raspy.
“We know a little from Special Agent Morales,” Robinson said, not unkindly. “But we’d like you to walk us through what happened tonight.”
“Okay,” Myla replied nervously.
Gibson looked at me. “Could we have a moment?”
I just stared at him.
“We understand the situation,” Robinson said. “And we can speak to Ms. Hawthorne here, alone, or we can talk to her at the field office.”