Page 78 of The Quiet After The Fall

“Knox, you’re scaring me.” There’s a pause, and then I hear her moving. “There’s nobody out there and Gia already left. She’d have seen someone.”

“Doesn’t matter. Just humor me.” My ribs scream when I try to sit up straighter, so I stop trying. “My father’s coming to sit outside for a while. Just until I know you’re okay.”

“Why can’t you—” She stops, her voice catching. “Knox, what happened to you?”

“Soon,” I manage. “Have to go.”

“Knox!”

I hang up as my mouth fills with blood again. There’s no more breath in my lungs to speak, not now, not with the pain stabbing into my side.

Maybe I pass out, I don’t know. The next thing I remember is my phone ringing and my head smearing blood on my pillow. I come to, answering the phone without looking at who’s calling.

“I’m here and everything looks normal. No cars idling. No lights on.”

My father. I blink, clearing my throat before speaking. “Did you check on her?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“Did you go upstairs?” I specify.

“Is that necessary?”

I shift, pushing myself to a sitting position with my free hand, biting back a curse. “At least go listen at her door. Make sure it’s quiet.”

He grumbles but I hear his car door shut. While he’s huffing and puffing his way up the stairs, I force myself into the bathroom and finally get a glimpse of my face in the mirror. I look exactly how I feel—like dog shit.

I’ve had a lot of ass beatings in my life. Most from the prick on the other line of the phone. But I’ve never been in this much pain. That asshole knew exactly where to hit to inflict the most damage. Every punch was a message. Get in line or this will seem like a walk in the park.

I use a damp hand towel to wipe some of the blood off my face, and check my teeth to make sure none of them are chipped or loose. They’re good, thankfully, just a cut on my inner cheek. My eye is swelling, so I pluck my contacts out and put on my glasses.

“Okay, I’m listening at the door,” my father cuts in. “It’s quiet. No lights on.”

“You sure?”

“Do I look like a fucking private investigator, Knox? You asked me to check, I checked. It’s almost 1 AM, I’m going back to bed.”

There’s nothing I can do to keep him there. I’ve already played my hand. “Fine.”

He hangs up, and I’m already getting my shoes and grabbing my keys.

The drive is a blur, but I could navigate these streets half dead. Which, considering the state of my ribs, isn’t far off. Every pothole sends a fresh wave of pain radiating through my side, and by the time I’m parking outside her building, my hands are shaking so bad it takes two tries to open my door.

I check the lot before I get out. Nothing’s out of place. It’s dark and empty. So is the sidewalk and street. It doesn’t stop that crawling feeling on the back of my neck the entire walk to her door.

I use the elevator, bracing my hands on the wall, my ribs screaming in protest with each passing minute, and by the time I reach her door, I’m sucking in air like I just ran a marathon instead of taking a few simple steps.

I’m ashamed to come here like this. She’s going to flip out, I know it. But I have to be with her. Keep her safe. I knock before I can talk myself out of it.

The locks turn faster than I expect, one after the other, then the chain, and she’s there, looking like a fucking miracle with her hair a mess and eyes glassy. Thank God she’s alright.

“Told you not to open the door,” I groan.

She turns, flicking on the outside light, my head throbs from the brightness. “Knox, I’ve called you like ten times, why didn’t you⁠—”

She stops.

Whatever she was about to say dies right there in her throat. Her eyes drop from my face to my shirt, dark with dried blood, and I watch every ounce of color drain from her cheeks.