“Hey, Tommy.” Celia sticks her head through my office door. “There’s an accident down on the corner—looks pretty bad. Emergency services are on their way, but Gordon and a few of the boys are going down to see if they can help.”
I nod, snagging my keys and wallet and heading down to the corner to see if I can help as well.
Halfway down the block I can smell the smoke, acrid and oily. In the distance, there’s a crunched heap that used to be two separate cars but is now molded into one metal monstrosity.
And there’s a pushing at my shoulders. A cold, panicked spark streaking up my spine that says something is wrong. And I need to move faster, to get there.
To get there now.
My heart pounds and the blood rages in my ears and there’s a pulling pain deep inside, like a hook in my soul.
I start to run. Sprinting.
When I reach the car, I see the unmistakable smear of copper strands against cracked windowpane, glinting in the sun.
And something between a roar and a wail comes out of me.
Because Abby’s in there.
In all that sharp, twisted, burning metal.
God, please, please—fucking please.
The driver’s seat is empty—I don’t know if the driver crawled away or was thrown from the car—and it’s just Abby inside. Alone. And the bent door won’t open, so I grip the metal and pull with everything I have. To tear it apart, to get to her—to get her out. The car shakes as I yank and strain, but it doesn’t fucking move.
Inside, Abby jostles with my efforts—her skin terrifyingly pale, her eyes closed, lips still.
This can’t be happening. Not now. Not after everything.
It can’t end like this.
It can’t end at all.
I hear the echo of the last words I said to Abby and all the words I’ve wanted to say since, and it’s like I’m fucking dying inside. Like I’m already dead.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
There are so many things I have to tell her. So many words she needs to hear.
In the edges of my vision, I see movement—the lads working around the other side. And I smell the black smoke, the heat, the fire.
“The car’s burning, Tommy. The whole thing’s gonna go. We gotta move,” Gordon tells me in cold, clear tones.
Because that’s how we work best. When we’re tactical. Detached. Assessment and risk. That’s what we do.
But this is different.
I punch at the glass of the window—not feeling a thing as the slivers stab into my knuckles, splitting skin and drawing blood. When it doesn’t break, I shift to jabbing with my elbow.
Come on, come on, you bastard.
“Tommy! Gotta move, gotta move.”
And it’s all so clear. So simple, as the nanoseconds of precious time tick by. The kind of truth that’s settled in the deepest recesses of my being. And I know without question that I’m not moving from this spot. I’m not going anywhere.
That if Abby is going to burn . . . I’m burning with her.
I kick and smash at the window like a madman, a jumble of curses and prayers tumbling from my mouth.
And at last—at fucking last—the glass gives.
Chunks and shards of sharp glass rain over Abby, but my hands are on her. Wrenching the safety buckle out of the seat. Lifting. Pulling her through the shattered space, tucking her against me to shield her, turning and running.
As the pop and hiss slashes the air behind me like a vicious snake, and the car—the seat where Abby was just lying and the spot where I stood—is consumed in flames.
I fall to my knees on the pavement and turn her in my arms, brushing her hair and bits of glass from her face with my bleeding hands.
“Abby. Abby, love, wake up. Wake up and look at me.”
Her golden brows wrinkle and draw together as she whimpers.
Then Abby’s eyes open. And she stares up at me for the longest moment and her words come on a soft, airy whisper.
“Is this heaven?”
And my vision, my whole fucking world, goes blurry with the relief. I choke out a laugh, as wetness seeps from the corners of my eyes.
“It is now.”
She smiles weakly, her green eyes shimmering with her own tears. She reaches up with one hand and strokes my cheek.
“I’m sorry, Tommy. I didn’t mean—”
“Shhh, it’s fine. None of that matters now. Don’t try to talk.”
“No.” She clenches my shirt in her one hand. “You have to listen—I have to say this.”
She licks at her lips, swallowing.
“You were right—I was afraid. Afraid of wanting so many things at once. But it wasn’t about you. I love you, Tommy. I wasn’t unsure of that. I love . . .” Her voice catches, breaking, and she tries again. “I love you. I’m never, ever going to not love you. I want the whole messy box with you, Tommy.”