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Willow nods.
“Good girl.”
He looks at me again, very clearly warring between saving his friend and protecting us. But we have a plan, and we made our promise. So he ducks into the car while I get Willow buckled in, and then peels out of the parking lot with me following close behind.
I try to ignore the gun lying on the passenger seat while I drive.
I try to ignore the way it actually makes me feel better—safer—than I’ve felt in weeks.
I try to ignore how much still hangs in the balance.
15
CLARA
“Hey, sweetie, do you want any more of your water?”
Willow shakes her head.
I try not to sigh because I’m not frustrated with her or anything like that. I’m just…
Okay. I’m worried. I’mbeyondworried.
Willow is my sweet little chatterbox who never hesitates to share every detail about her day with me, good or bad. Won a gold star for being helpful in class? I’ll receive a play-by-play of the official “ceremony” during which said star was bestowed upon her Good Behavior Chart. Kid at recess was mean to her? By the time she’s done with her story, I’ll not only know what they were wearing—I’ll know the brand name of their shoelaces and who they had a crush on last year.
She hasn’t spoken a single word since we left the school.
She also hasn’t cried.
Truth be told, Willow hasn’t made a peep.
It might be the hospital that’s scaring her. I’m ashamed to admit that we’ve had our visits, more than once—for me, not her, thank God. Martin never laid a hand on her, at least not until the last few days before we finally left. But when we did have to come to the hospital for anything other than her checkup and vaccinations, it was because I’d broken yet another finger or suffered yet another concussion.
Of course, nurses whispered questions to me.
Of course, my suspicious condition was reported.
And of course, Martin would always be the responding officer.
She was quiet then, just like she’s quiet now and was quiet on the way here. Not humming or singing to herself or talking to the birds as they flew past her window. She just… sat there.
Silent. Numb.
My baby is too young to develop numbness. She’s too young to be in a shooting. They all are.
Demyen walks back over to us from the nurse’s station, his hands in his pockets but his stride calm and unhurried. “He’s in surgery right now,” he explains once he sits down next to me on the arm of the couch Willow and I have settled ourselves into. “Not much to update, but they said that usually means things are going well.”
Demyen looks exhausted. He’s always on alert, always ready to go whether it’s a meeting or a dinner or a fight. But right now, as he sighs and stares off into space, it’s like that one single breath exhales what little energy was keeping him upright.
“How are you?” I ask him. At first, his hand feels limp when I take it. But then his fingers lace with mine and his thumb brushes over the back of my hand.
“Pissed. Worried. More pissed.” He sighs again and covertly slides his gaze over to Willow. “More worried.”
I can empathize. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forget the way he kicked that car door open and barreled out into the gunfight without a moment of concern for his own safety. No vest, no shield, not even a partner to check his six. He had no idea where any of the Yakuza shooters were and yet he didn’t care.
All he knew was that Willow was in trouble.
And that’s how he responded.
