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She stands and dips to press a soft kiss to my lips. “Thank you.”
Anything. Anything for you,a chuisle.
The following morning, Harlow bounces her knee up and down the entire car ride. She’s chewing her inner cheek, which she does when she’s a scared-nervous versus a flirty-nervous. “What’s in that pretty head,a chuisle?”
“I don’t think I can do this.” Her lip quivers, and she turns to face the window.
“Of course you can.” I set my hand on her thigh. “It will hurt like a bitch. But I’ll be there to catch you if you fall. I made you a promise, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word. You hear me? You won’t be doing this alone.”
I see her gulp in my periphery and tighten my hold on her leg. I hate that there is no enemy for me to kill. No person who’s physically hurt her so that I can hurt them ten times worse. Of course, there’s the slayer, but even once I send him to the boatman, it won’t bring Beth back. Koslov was right, nothing will bring her back. It’s not the same as an eye for an eye—that shit’s simple. Trying to fix a broken heart? Nothing simple about that.
I may not be able to fill the hole in her heart, but maybe I can patch it.
When we get to her apartment, her hand is shaking around the key and she huffs, frustrated. I silently brush her hand away and unlock the door with my spare key.
“How—Why am I even surprised?” She shakes her head, but I catch the slightest ghost of a smile and my chest tightens knowing I’m the reason for it. “So how long have you had a copy—” She freezes mid-sentence when she notices the clean kitchen and tidying I did last time I was here.
“What the—” Her eyes widen.
“Since your second shift.”
“What?”
“I made copies of your keys on your second shift at the Den.”
“Psycho…” she says under her breath while she walks around to inspect the place.
“I thought we'd already determined that.”
“Oh mygod,” she spins around, mouth agape. “The vibrator from the shower…that wasn’t just the same kind I have, it was mine.” I just smirk. “Jesus Christ, Cash, that’s all kinds of creepy.”
“Creepy, butyou love it.” I wiggle my eyebrows and am rewarded with a small chuckle. It’s quickly stifled when she turns to face the taped door. I watch attentively as her chest rises with heavy breaths. I want to pick her up and cradle her to my chest, make her feel safe and whole, but I know that won’t help.
She stares down the door like it’s a lion ready to pounce. She approaches on light feet so she doesn’t spook it. Like she’s suddenly had enough, she rips the door open, the loose tape fluttering.
She stands stock-still in the doorway, and I think she may be having another panic attack. But then she sighs and pulls out a dresser drawer, plopping it on the unmade bed. “Alright, one drawer at a time. One drawer at a time,” she says, and I feel like it’s not for my benefit.
“Cash, can you get the suitcases from under my bed and some trash bags from the kitchen…” She frowns. “If I have any.”
As I’ve said before, I don’t take orders from anyone. But for her, I fall in line like a foot soldier to his queen.
I’m impressed with how Harlow is able to systematically work through Beth’s hoard of a room—turns out neither of these girls have a penchant for tidiness. We work through her clothes and nightstands efficiently, creating piles to donate, toss, and keep.
But her armor starts cracking when we get to the box of photos under Beth’s bed. She pulls them out one by one. Some she laughs at and tucks away in a pile for herself. Others she sits up excitedly and tells me the story behind it, voice cracking at the end when it hits her that those are the last memories she’ll get of her best friend.
“She was always meant for a stage.” She laughs when handing me a photo of an elementary-aged Beth dressed as Tinkerbell, a red stage curtain behind her.
“Did you do any plays?” I look at the smiley-faced girl, small and bubbly, and feel an unusual pang knowing how that smile gets snuffed out.
“I was the crocodile.” I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “It’s okay, you can laugh,” she says as one spills out of her too.
I can’t help myself. I grab her around the waist and drag her across the floor to settle her in my lap. She exhales, content being in my arms, and I feel an equal warmth run over my shoulders.
We continue to sort through the photos. At this point just for memory’s sake, Harlow has decided to not throw any out. It feels like a light way to end a heavy day. Reminiscing on the positive memories rather than the gruesome ones of her death.
She pulls out a photo of a young Beth and who I assume are her parents. The woman is petite and blonde like her, and the man looks like a younger version of Ivan Koslov. “Ivan and her dad are brothers?” The relation is obvious.
“Yeah.”
