Page 24 of You Can Run

“I'm sorry,” she said, the words coming out quieter than she intended. “About the timing. And...everything.”

Julian filled a mug from the kettle. He set it in front of her—not coffee, just hot water—like he'd already decided what she needed without asking. Then he moved to the back door and turned the deadbolt.

“Santiago doesn't talk about Chicago,” he said, returning to the counter.

Jessica stared at the steam curling upward.

“But he doesn't have to.” Julian leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms. “He still wakes up some nights like he's there.”

The words settled into her chest with a slow, familiar weight.

“He was just a kid,” she said. “Dante tried to keep him out of it. Tried to keep all of it away from him.”

“He did,” Julian said simply. “And it worked. Santiago went to school. He built something real. He patches people up now instead of watching them bleed out.” A small pause. “He stopped expecting the worst every time someone knocked on the door.”

“And now I'm here,” she said.

“Yes. Now you're here.”

“I'm not staying,” she said. “We'll go as soon as I figure out where.”

Julian studied her for a moment. There was a flicker of calculation behind the steadiness, and she realized he wasn't just assessing her. He was measuring what her presence was going to cost, running the math on what happened to the lives in this house if the people following her found it.

“You don't have a plan,” he said. “You're running on instinct. That works for a few hours. Maybe a day.” He uncrossed his arms and set both hands flat on the counter behind him, and shenoticed for the first time how deliberate all his movements were. “After that, you need something better.”

“I'm not going back,” she said. “Not to the feds. I’m not going to be moved around like I'm evidence.”

“I didn't say you should,” Julian replied. “I'm saying you need to decide what you're willing to do instead.”

There was arguing coming from the back of the house. Then a sharp crack, like a fist hitting the wall.

The door at the end of the hall slammed hard enough to rattle something in the kitchen cabinets. Dante appeared in the doorway a second later carrying a small duffle. The air seemed to change around him. His face was flushed, his eyes lit with something restless and dark, like whatever had been said back there hadn't resolved anything.

“We're going,” he said.

Julian straightened. “Dante?—”

Jessica set the mug down carefully, because her hands had started to shake again and she didn't want either of them to see it. “Where are we going?”

Dante looked at her like the question irritated him, not because it was wrong, but because he didn't have an answer he liked. “Away from here.”

“That's not a destination.”

“It's enough for now.”

“It wasn't enough last time,” she shot back before she could stop herself.

The words hung there between them. Dante went still.

Julian's gaze shifted between them, quiet, watchful.

“You don't get to decide everything again,” she said. “I'm not getting shoved into another car and being told it'll all work out.”

Dante took a step closer. “And you don't get to sit still and wait for them to try again.”

“I wasn't sitting still,” she snapped. “I was surviving.”

“Barely.”