Page 211 of I’m The Worst

I slide one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, lifting her carefully into my arms. She curls against my chest.

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“I don’t want to.” She hides her face against my neck.

“I know.” Rain soaks through us the second I step outside. “I don’t care if it takes weeks. Months. Years.” I tighten my arms around her. “We’ll find the best doctors. The best therapists. Whatever the fuck you need.” My heart beats harder as I press my lips against her damp hair. “You’re going to heal, solnyshko. I’ll drag you through every goddamn step if I have to. You don’t have to believe you’ll get better yet. I’ll believe it enough for both of us until you do.”

I don’t know how to love somebody the right way. But I’ll learn.

Whatever it takes.

However long it takes.

The warehouse sits thirty miles outside the city, surrounded by rusted fencing and acres of empty concrete that haven’t seen legitimate business in decades. Rain drums against the corrugated steel roof. Inside, the air smells like motor oil, damp concrete, and old blood.

Commander Weston and Gage stand in the center of the warehouse, staring at the two figures kneeling several feet away. Black canvas sacks cover both their heads. Their wrists are zip-tied behind their backs, ankles bound together.

Neither of them has stopped shaking since Graves and I threw them in the back of the van.

Graves leans against a steel support beam, smoking a cigarette. “They screamed the whole drive,” he says around the cigarette. “Mostly him. Daughter puked after the second stoplight.”

Weston walks forward slowly until he’s standing over them.

“Remove the bags.”

Graves pushes himself off the beam. “Showtime.” Reaching down, he yanks the first sack free.

Commander Harrington blinks against the warehouse lights, his face swollen from the ride over, one eye already beginning to close. Blood has dried beneath his nose.

He spots Weston.

Whatever bravado he’d been clinging to evaporates instantly.

“What the fuck is this?” he snaps, trying to straighten despite the restraints. “Untie me right now. You’re out of your goddamn mind!”

Weston doesn’t respond. His attention shifts to the second figure.

Graves crouches, yanks the bag off, and tosses it aside.

Devin gasps as cool air hits her face. Her blonde hair hangs in tangled strings around cheeks streaked with mascara and snot. Her wrists are rubbed raw where she’d fought the restraints. She starts hyperventilating the second she sees her father.

“Daddy!”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Commander Harrington says quickly, his voice cracking despite his attempt to sound calm. “It’s going to be okay. They can’t hurt us.”

“Don’t lie to her,” Weston says.

Devin lets out another broken sob.

Harrington jerks against the restraints, his face twisting with fury. “You piece of shit. You think I won’t end you for this? You think I won’t burn everything you’ve ever touched to the ground?”

Weston doesn’t even look at him.

He opens the file I gave him—the one Graves stole from Harrington’s desk. Every message translated. Every conversation with Akim. Every dirty deal laid out in black and white.

Harrington’s face drains of what little color it had left. “You have no right to that.”

“I had every fucking right the second you sold my daughter.” Weston closes the folder and crouches in front of Devin. “And you helped him.”