“That sounds like him.”
“It does.”
“Kauss?”
Her face changes.
My stomach plunges. “What?”
“He was alive when I arrived.”
“I know that.”
“He left before I could assess him.”
“Was he hurt?”
“Probably. He was covered in runoff, blood, and that particular expression men get when they are about to make themselves a historical warning.”
I close my eyes. “Why didn’t he call me?”
“Because he’s in love with you and stupid about it.”
The bluntness hits like a slap.
My eyes open. “Mira.”
“What? You want medical language? Fine. Patient exhibits severe attachment, emotional avoidance, and advanced dumbassery.”
“I threw him out last night.”
Mira’s face softens. “Darlene told me.”
“Of course she did.”
“She was worried.”
“I told him I loved him.”
“And?”
“He didn’t say it back.”
Nara studies me. “Did he look like he didn’t love you?”
I swear to God, if one more old or medically licensed woman asks me that question, I am going to commit crimes.
“That is not the point,” I say.
“It might be.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“No, you have time for it because if you find him, you better know what you’re actually angry about before you swing at a man who is probably already bleeding.”
I pull back. “I’m angry that he left. I’m angry he didn’t call. I’m angry he thinks keeping me away from danger means leaving me in the dark while I imagine him dead in a flooded sewer.”
“That’s fair.”
