Page 108 of Wraith

Bishop’s truck is right there. They’ve spread something in the bed—tarp maybe, or plastic—and they’re lowering me onto it with a gentleness that surprises me. The movement still sends bone fragments grinding together, still makes my vision swim with black spots, but they’re trying.

June appears at the edge of the truck bed, climbing in despite Bishop’s protests. She settles beside me, her hand finding mine again, and I realize this might be the last time I feel her touch. The last time I see her face.

I squeeze her hand, try to smile. I don’t know if I manage it — all I feel is an explosion of pain in my face and something close to hope in my heart.

Bishop is securing equipment around us, setting up some kind of mobile IV. The others are gathering, their faces appearing at the edge of my vision. Evan looks like he wants to kill me himself, but he says nothing. Molly touches June’s shoulder briefly.

Then Bishop’s climbing into the cab and the engine is starting and June is leaning down, her face close to mine. She’s looking for an uninjured spot on my face, some place where her touch won’t cause more damage. She settles on a small patch of cheek near my jaw, a miracle of unbruised skin in the landscape of my destruction.

Her lips are soft when they press against that spot. Gentle. The kiss is chaste and careful and absolutely devastating.

When she pulls back, her eyes are shining with fresh tears.

“Please don’t die.”

Chapter Forty-Six

June

One week later

The kitchen counter is still dusted with flour when I crack the eggs into the mixing bowl, watching the yolks slide free with a satisfaction that feels disproportionate to the task. But that’s New June, I guess — finding meaning in minor victories like properly separating an egg or remembering to preheat the oven to 350 degrees. The apartment smells of vanilla and cinnamon, smells like someone lives here instead of just hides here, and through the kitchen window I can see the edge of Ironwood Falls stretching out under morning light that looks almost hopeful.

No, it is hopeful.

The video on my phone shows a woman with perfect nails and a spotless kitchen demonstrating how to fold blueberries into cheesecake filling without crushing them. I pause it, rewind, and watch her gentle technique again. My blueberries are frozen, leaving purple streaks in the cream cheese mixture, but I’m careful. Gentle. Like the difference matters.

Maybe it does.

I don’t know, and every time I start to feel inadequate about myself, my mixing technique, my blueberries, compared to her manicured lifestyle, I remember she has probably never charged headfirst into a gunfight to save someone’s life.

But I have.

Smiling, I pour the mixture over the oat crust I pressed into the pan twenty minutes ago, my fingers still smelling like butter and brown sugar and a touch of cinnamon. The Twisted Devils are paying for this place — Evan made that clear when he helped me move in three days ago, made it clear in a way that suggested I shouldn’t argue. But I will pay them back. I’ll get a job, take over the lease, make this space actually mine instead of just another version of being taken care of.

I take care of myself now.

Myself, and the people who matter to me.

The oven beeps and I slide the pan onto the middle rack, setting a new timer for thirty-five minutes. The apartment is small — one bedroom, a kitchen that opens into a living room barely big enough for the secondhand couch Molly helped me pick out. But it has good light. And it’s mine.

I fill the sink with hot water and soap, start washing the mixing bowl while the bars bake. The video mentioned this — cleaning as you go — and I’m trying it out, trying all these small domestic rituals that normal people do. People who aren’t running. People who have routines and plans and futures that extend past the next twenty-four hours.

The sponge moves in circles against the stainless steel, and I let myself imagine this as my life. Coming home from work — maybe that server position at Bistro Bellisimo if they haven’t filled it yet — and cooking dinner. Watching cooking videos not because I’m filling time but because I actually want to learn. Having Evan over, or Molly. Building something that looks normal.

The thought should make me happy. It does make me happy, mostly. Except for the Dylan-shaped hole in the center.

The timer goes off, and I pull the bars from the oven. They’re golden brown on top, the blueberries bubbling purple through cracks in the cheesecake layer. I set them on the counter to cool and cut one corner piece; the steam rising with that smell of vanilla and fruit and accomplishment.

When I bite into it, I let out a little moan.

“Fuck, I’m good.”

I eat standing at the counter, then wipe down the counter and finish the last of the dishes. Forty-five minutes until Evan picks me up. Forty-five minutes until I walk into the police station and become a witness. Until I take responsibility for what I saw, what I know, what I can do to help put the Sons away.

The thought makes me pause at the counter and look around my little kitchen. Doing the right thing could cost me this little bit of freedom that I’m building for myself.

Do I really want to do that?