"You should be lying down."
"I've had worse."
"I know." Her voice drops low. Whatever she says next is between them, too quiet for me to catch, but Jax goes very still. Then he reaches up with his free hand and covers hers. Holds it against his arm. She lets him.
Walsh is loaded into the FBI van. Damian supervises the transfer and Walsh is still talking about lawyers as the doors close.
I pick up the folder from the table. Look at the photos one last time under the work lights. Angelina on the courthouse steps. Chesca's smile. The origami crane stickers.
I close the folder. Hold it against my side.
The little girl is in the medical van now, wrapped in a blanket three sizes too big, legs disappearing into the fabric. She sees me through the open doors. Small hand comes up and waves.
I wave back.
You come back?
Yeah. I will.
I'll find out her name.
My phone buzzes.
Kade:Blade. Angelina wants to...
Her voice cuts through before he finishes typing, breathless and shaking through the phone speaker: "Chesca had a nightmare. She's asking for you."
I'm already moving.
thirty-five
Cole
The elevator doors slide open.
"Cole!"
Chesca's off the couch before Angelina can react, bare feet slapping tile, launching herself across the room like I might disappear if she does not reach me fast enough.
I drop to one knee and catch her.
Her arms lock around my neck, face buried against my shoulder. She is trembling.
"You said you'd come back." Her voice is muffled, accusing. "You said."
"Mou daijoubu dayo." The Japanese slips out before I can stop it, the same words I murmured to a little girl in a warehouse an hour ago.It is okay now.
"It took forever."
"I know." I shift my grip, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed flat against her back. She is so small. Warm and alive and here. The manila folder is still tucked under my arm, evidence of how close we came. I still smell likegunpowder and sweat. She does not seem to notice. "I am sorry, hime. I came as fast as I could."
She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her cheeks blotchy. Not the dramatic sobs she uses when she wants something, but the quiet kind. The scared kind.
"Mommy said you were helping people."
"I was."
"Did you help them?"