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I share a look with Archie, the only other person I told about her nightmare last night.
At least the part where she dreamt about getting shot again. I didn’t mention she also dreamt about being in the burning car with Adam. Or that she thought her shooter might be the same person who lit Adam’s car on fire. It was just a dream. We caught the guy who killed Adam.
And the man who attempted to kill Esme.
They’re two different people.
“She okay?”
“Claims she is,” I tell Archie. “But I’m going to stay closer than usual, just in case. You’ll sweep the crowd so I can keep her in my sights?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, mate.”
“You bet.”
I head toward the front of the plane, giving Esme a small nod to go ahead.
She faces the door and steps onto the stairs, bright lights flashing from dozens of cameras. Reporters push forward, shouting her name. Asking about her injuries. If she’s healing.
As she glides down the stairs, she maintains her composure, but I make sure to stay only a step or two behind her instead of allowing her to walk down on her own, as is typically the case.
She’s halfway down the stairs when I first notice her flinch, her body stiffening, shoulders becoming tense. It’s subtle, and lasts less than a second before she continues, but I can tell every second is a hard-fought battle. As the flashes and camera shutters become more incessant, she grips the railing for support, her knuckles turning white.
I move toward her, touching my hand to her elbow. When I do, she whips her eyes to mine, panic swirling within like a stormy ocean.
“Just look at me. I got you.”
I can see how much she wants to break down, curl into a ball and make it all go away. But she can’t. Or maybe she won’t. Won’t admit she’s struggling with what she endured yesterday.
Just like I can all but guarantee she refused to admit she struggled in the aftermath of Adam’s death.
Not taking my hand off her as we navigate the rest of the stairs, I lead her toward the waiting SUV, doing my best to shield her from any flashes. Once we reach the car, I help her into the back seat before jumping behind the wheel. The second Archie slides into the passenger seat, I peel away, the photographers and reporters now nothing but specks in the distance.
It’s silent for several minutes, but I keep looking into my rearview mirror to check on Esme. Her eyes are focused outside, her shoulders rising and falling as she attempts to control her breathing.
It’s probably the only thing she feels shecancontrol right now.
“Five things you see,” I say, cutting through the silence.
She tears her gaze from the window, looking forward. “What?”
“Don’t get stuck in your head. That’s the worst thing for you right now. Believe me.”
While our situations are vastly different, I’ve been in Esme’s shoes more times than I can count. I know how much narrowly escaping death can fuck with your mind. You think of all thewhat-ifscenarios. You get stuck in that split second when you stared down that barrel.
Some people never find the strength to move on from that moment, allowing it to torture them for the rest of their lives.
I refuse to let Esme fall victim to that.
“Fine.” I adjust my hands on the steering wheel. “I’ll start.”
I scan my surroundings, unsure if Esme will play this game with Archie in the car. But he’s her CPO. I’d be surprised if he didn’t already know about her occasional bouts of anxiety. If anything, this will give him a tool he can use when he notices she’s having a rough time.
“The snowcapped mountains in the distance. Now you go.”
She doesn’t say anything right away, but I can feel the heat of her stare on me as she deliberates.
