Completely shattered.
“I couldn’t save her,” Flick whispered.
There it was.
The real wound.
Not fear.
Not witness protection.
Guilt.
Sweet Jesus.
“She died holding my hand.”
The entire tavern fell silent.
Even Vaughn shut up.
Because suddenly this wasn’t a federal witness anymore.
This was a woman drowning under survivor’s guilt.
Flick started crying harder now.
Not graceful tears.
The kind buried deep.
“I still hear her,” she whispered brokenly. “Every night.”
That did it.
Absolutely did it.
I pulled her against me immediately.
Hard.
Protective.
Mine.
Her hands grabbed fistfuls of my shirt instantly like she was drowning.
And maybe she was.
“She asked me not to let them forget her,” Flick cried against my chest. “And I ran.”
“No.”
The word came out rough enough to shake.
“You survived.”
“She died!”
