I should’ve expected this. Samantha has never been the type to just nod and move on. Even back when she worked at the prison, she asked questions. Pushed. Refused to accept half-answers. It’s part of why I respected her. Part of why I listened when she told me I could be more than what I was.
I rake a hand through my hair and stay on my feet. Easier to think that way.
“She needs to get out of LA.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s in danger.”
“What kind of danger?”
I glance down the hall. The water’s still running. “The kind connected to my past.”
Silence.
When she speaks again, her voice is quieter. “Your old gang?”
“Yes.”
“And this girl is…what? A witness? A client? Someone from Wilder House?”
“No.”
Another beat. “Then who is she, Wilder?”
I sink onto the arm of the couch and stare at the floor. “She’s…staying with me.”
The silence on the other end stretches long enough that I check the screen to be sure the call’s still connected.
“With you,” Samantha repeats.
“Yes.”
“In your apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Voluntarily?”
A laugh scrapes out of me despite everything. “Yes, Sam. Voluntarily.”
“Wow.” She lets out a low whistle. “Okay. I did not see that coming.”
I stand again, restless, and start another lap.
“Neither did I.”
“How long?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“And you’re already trying to send her across the country?”
“She almost got hurt today.”
That wipes the humor from her voice. “What happened?”
I tell her. Not every detail—not the knife—but enough. By the time I finish, I’ve crossed the room twice over and ended up at the window, watching nothing move on the street below.
