The blinding, searing pain in my skull.
The jangle of my keys as they hit the tile floor before I did.
His wife in the doorway with her sad, dark eyes.
The wailing of the ambulance sirens.
The darkness blanketing me.
The smell of antiseptic that filled my nostrils as I woke to an array of wires and machines spouting off my vital signs in some Manhattan hospital room.
The silver-haired doctor who told me how lucky I was to be alive—after he told me I’d died.
I asked for Matt for days before my mother finally told me the truth—at least the truth as it had been relayed to her second- or thirdhand. Apparently after I’d blacked out, his wife had called 911, and as they’d loaded me inside the back of the ambulance, she’d told a young paramedic, “The only thing I know about this woman is that she’s been fucking my husband.” And then she disappeared into the crowd of onlookers that had gathered to watch the spectacle.
I don’t blame her for leaving.
She didn’t owe me a damn thing.
A Matt-size shadow fills Matt’s apartment window, jerking me back into the present moment. Hooking my hand into Indie’s elbow, I jerk her along and get the hell out of there before he notices.
I’d hate for him to think I’m standing here missing the way we were.
Maybe I can’t rewrite the past, but today I turned the page on a new chapter.
Fingers crossed this one doesn’t end with another earthquake.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WEST
“I swear to God, Scarlett,” I say the second the cops leave. “I had the whole damn city looking for you; do you realize that?”
Her gaze drops to the marble-inlay floor of my entryway as the antique grandfather clock to the left chimes thrice—as if I needed to be reminded it’s the middle of the longest damn night of my life.
“And what the hell were you doing at Penn Station?” I circle her, my fingertips digging into my temples. “Did you think you could just . . . hop a train back to Whitebridge? That’s not how it works. You could’ve gotten yourself killed. Is that your goal here? Because if it is, you’re well on your way.”
I didn’t spend all my time, effort, money, and energy rescuing her from a grim and perilous existence only to stand back and let her take a one-way ticket back to that hellhole. She’s safer with me than she’ll ever be with anyone else, and that’s a verifiable fact.
She responds with flinching shoulders and silence, as usual.
“What’s it going to take, Scarlett? Tell me. Because short of injecting you with a microchip tracking device, you’re leaving me no choice”—I pause—“but to send you to a boarding school with twenty-four-hour security.”
Working for years and spending a small fortune to ensure my niece was in good hands only to ship her off to be someone else’s problem is far from ideal, but my options are waning.
As if I’ve flipped a switch, her jaw falls and her pale eyes grow wild. “You’re seriously going to ditch me?”
Ignoring the piercing tightness in my chest and the urge to look away, I speak through gritted teeth. “The choice is yours, Scarlett. If you choose to run away again, you’re choosing boarding school. If you choose to go to school and live by the rules I’ve set in place for your own safety, then you’ll stay here and finish high school in the city.”
“You’re just trying to scare me.” Her nose crinkles with infuriating teenage defiance.
“Test me.” I step closer, narrowing the gap between us.
She smells like the night air with a mix of train-station filth and drugstore raspberry body spray.
“Get cleaned up and go to bed,” I say. “You have school in the morning. And I’m arming the apartment tonight in away mode, so if you so much as step out of your room for a glass of water from the kitchen, I’ll know.”
“I hate you!”
“Someday you won’t. Until then, good night, Scarlett.”
My temperamental niece storms down the hall, and within seconds her door slams shut and angsty emo shit blasts at full volume.
Heading to my study, I pour two fingers of scotch from a limited-edition bottle of Macallan and settle into a chair to collect my thoughts and calm myself in hopes I’ll be able to nab a couple of hours’ sleep before my day begins.
Parenthood was never something I wanted to check off my list, and being a father—or father figure—is something I’ve gone out of my way to avoid in my thirty-seven years, because a man knows his strengths just as well as he knows his weaknesses.
Marriage, kids, domesticity, patience—those things have never been on my radar. But a few years ago, I flew home to attend my mother’s funeral, and that was when I saw Scarlett. I hadn’t seen her since she was a curly-haired baby, barely walking and never without a pink pacifier in her mouth. But after seeing her at the memorial, emaciated and unwashed, shadowing her mother—who was clearly in the throes of addiction again—I had to intervene.