A question echoed. Was it over, really?
The violence had been across the street once. In a warehouse miles away. Tonight, it had come through her front door.
One second, she was alone, trying to contain her rising panic. The next, he was there, crouched in front of her.
“You with me, darlin’?”
She might have answered or shaken her head. She wasn’t sure. Still locked on the broken chair, splintered cabinets, and the police swarming the mobster responsible for it all.
“Erica. Look at me.”
She did. Trembling harder.
His hands framed her face, thumbs gently brushing away her tears. “Where are you hurt?”
She lifted a hand to her tender scalp, touching gingerly. “He yanked my hair. Hard. Then you came in. Before he could do worse.”
Despite her denial, he scanned her from head to toe, searching for damage.
“I saw him,” she whispered.
“Who?”
Her voice shook. “The same man Cheyenne and Shannon did.”
Something dark crossed his face. “Tell me everything later.”
The thug was hauled upright and escorted—none too gently—out the door.
An officer stopped beside them. “Is she good, Lieutenant? Need medics?”
“I don’t think so.”
“We’ll need her statement.”
He nodded. “Give us a minute.”
“Sure thing,” he said, and walked out.
Quiet descended over the house. She stared at her ruined kitchen. A cabinet hanging askew, glass shards on the floor. She hadn’t registered it shattering.
“Vince,” she whispered, reaching for him.
He gripped her hand, pulled her to her feet, then into his arms. “Pack a bag.”
It wasn’t loud or panicky. It was an order, however, and absolute.
Her house and studio, her safe places, weren’t safe anymore. She leaned into him, the only haven she had left.
“How long?”
“As long as it takes.” His arms tightened, and his voice dropped. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Not a reassurance. A promise.
“Pack enough for a few days,” he said gently. “I’ll be right here.”
She walked down the hallway on unsteady legs, aware of him behind her, a solid, immovable shield between her and the rest of the suddenly more terrifying world.
